


Draw Me a Map

by Netterz



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Debbie loves Lou, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Lou Loves Debbie, They're Hopeless, Two Way Street, give and take
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netterz/pseuds/Netterz
Summary: Draw Me a Map[that leads me back to you]It's been a long time since the last time she was at a loss for words. But here, in the stillness that falls over after-midnight hours, there's nothing left to fall from her mouth...Breathing the same air as Lou again helps, cleanses her palate somehow, replaces the taste of spoiled with crisp and a little bit sweet.





	1. How Did We Get Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the HeistWives Writing Bug hasn't been worked out of my system quite yet, so here's my latest project.
> 
> Most of the story will take place during the movie/heist timeline, but there is backstory in this chapter, and there will be a few more bits and pieces throughout the story as a whole.
> 
> Thank you in advance to everyone who reads, or leaves kudos, or comments, or is just a part of this fandom <3
> 
> Enjoy the ride!

[NOW]

It's been a long time since the last time she was at a loss for words. But here, in the stillness that falls over after-midnight hours, there's nothing left to fall from her mouth—nothing she can say that feels big enough to fill in the spaces, and the cracks, and the fractures between them.

So, she speaks with the tips of her fingers— _I missed you_ —across cheekbones sharp enough to cut the veil between them; with her tongue— _I'm sorry_ —flicking out, around the shell of her ear; with her lips— _I need you_ —ghosting along her jawline, closing over her pulse point. 

 

[THEN]

Back and forth across the living room floor, side-stepping the end-table beside the couch at each pass, a page of blueprints whisks off the corner of the dining table when she spins at the end of the length with more force than the last three rounds. The page flutters to the floor; Lou pauses mid-step, watches it float, catch the draft that comes off the bay-window during the fall and winter months, and eventually land on the scuffed-up laminate. 

“Is anything ever going to be enough?”

The silence stretches, elastic, reaching its limits and fraying out. Debbie leans against the edge of the table covered in the rest of the building plans she’d been pouring over before Lou came home. She doesn’t need the page that’s fallen—it’s just the lobby, she finished with it this morning, has had it committed to memory for hours.

She thinks about Lou. Lou, who has always been enough exactly the way she is. Lou, who Debbie would never, ever change—not a hair on her head, or a line on her face, or a scar on her knuckles because she’s flawed in all of the ways that make her irrevocably _everything_.

She thinks about herself, and how finally, after so many years she might _like_ herself a little bit. Who she’s finally grown into, what she’s capable of, where she’s come from.

She thinks about the bag that’s been packed, and half un-packed, and re-packed, and half un-packed again over the last three months; the one that, right now, is half-kicked into the closet after the last round of making-up pulled her away from un-packing and she never got back to it.

And she thinks about Lou again, who is standing rigid in the middle of the room, still staring intently at the line-drawing-covered stationary on the floor, waiting for Debbie to speak.

"I don't know how to  _be_  what you want."  
"Just go, Deb." 

And she does.

She leaves with that single duffel bag: clothes, her second-favourite pair of heels, a bottle of the perfume Lou's been stealing for her over and over again, for years, because there's just  _something sexy_  about the way Lou nicks it right off the shelf and slides it into the pocket of Debbie's coat with a smirk and a wink.

She leaves their tiny, warm, one-bedroom apartment and doesn't look back on her way down the hall; freezes stepping out onto the windy Manhattan street; slips into the alleyway beside their building and tries to will her eyes to stop filling and her throat to stop aching and her heart to stay in one piece even though, really, it's too late for any of that.

She thinks about going back, about begging and pleading because it's  _Lou_  in that apartment, and it's been  _Debbie-and-Lou_  for so long that she isn't sure she knows how to be anything else anymore, but she doesn't—pride, stubbornness, maybe just a little shame. She takes a deep breath and walks down the street with her jaw set and her shoulders squared and her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. 

Because she's tired. She's so damn tired of fighting, and yelling, and so, so tired of hurting Lou.

Because she loves Lou. God, she's loved her forever, but she doesn't know  _how to_  love her. She doesn't really know how to love anybody. It wasn't ever a part of her life. The Ocean Family didn’t do love, not under her father’s thumb. They protected their own, were loyal to a fault, but  _love_? She isn’t sure anybody in her whole damn family knows how to love somebody, what it’s supposed to look like to love somebody.

Maybe she could have tried a little harder. Maybe she could have just  _tried_  to stay still. For now. For Lou. But she wouldn't—didn't, and now Lou wants her to be gone and the least she can do is to make this easier for her. She can leave and let Lou move on with her life; a life that will be better, and safer, and simpler without Debbie in it.

There's a residence-hotel in Queen’s where she knows she can hustle a room for a few months without even pausing to blink, and an art dealer that a family friend—one of the ones she's always kept as far away from Lou as she possibly can because they're more  _family_ -friend than family- _friend_  and they've never been good news and Lou deserves more than that—put in touch with her weeks ago. She's been avoiding setting up a meeting—he isn’t looking for a two-person-package-deal. She's not part of one of those anymore. For the first time in two decades she's on her own. 

 

*

 

Lou stares at the inside of the door for what feels like hours—doesn't know how long it's actually been. Keeps waiting for it to swing open again, and for Debbie to be standing there waiting for Lou to let her guard back down, for Lou to let her back in, waiting for them to  _fix_  things because she'll swear on whatever Debbie wants her to swear on that this will be the last time that she tells her to go, that this can be the last fight, the last defeat—that if she just comes back she'll never let her go again.

She loves her.

She can admit that to herself, can even admit that she's loved her since the day they met; loved her during their days of cutting class, and nights sneaking out, and later-nights sneaking into bars. And maybe the things they've been fighting about aren't  _really_ the things they’ve been fighting about at all. Maybe they’ve just been smoke screens.

She's been pushing and pushing and begging Deb to just stay  _still_  for months; just wanted to catch their breath. And Deb's been so busy planning the next sprint, the next move, and next  _take_ ; and Lou kept pushing; and the push-and-pull that they've always had disintegrated in their hands, turned into push-and-push, and nights sleeping elsewhere, and days without speaking. But now that she's  _here_ — _in_ the  _still_ ness that she thought she wanted—there's nothing she wants more than to be able to run and run and not stop because blazing through life beside Debbie comes as naturally as breathing. Because, really, she'd follow Deb over a cliff. Because she's never actually been  _good_  at being  _still,_  didn't even really want to stay still any of the times she brought it up, just wanted to know that if she asked, Deb would  _stay_. 

But she didn't ask her to stay, did she? Just asked her to stop. Then asked her to go. And now she's gone.

 

*

 

She was a mark. She got played. Never even saw it coming, was too distracted thinking about whether or not Lou was okay, wondering if Lou had found somebody new, contemplating going  _home_  in the back corner of her mind. She missed all of the warnings signs like she was some amateur con-artist who didn't have a clue.

She's never looked great in orange. The particular shade she supposes she'll have to get used to hurts her eyes. But she thinks she'd take that hurt over the flash of platinum blonde hair and the back of a tailored blazer that she caught at the back of the courtroom as she was led out in cuffs. It wasn't a shock that she was there—Debbie knows she would have been if the situation was reversed. It was the physical pain that she didn't predict. The ache that blossomed in her chest and spread to trembling hands, burning eyes, heavy steps. 

 

*

 

She'll kill him. He's slimy, and disgusting, and she'll kill him.

The lamp from the table beside the couch flies across the room and crashes into the wall. She doesn't feel  _better_ , but she thinks she might feel a little calmer.

She'd expected it to hurt, seeing Deb again so many months after— _after_. Seeing Deb dressed in orange, being manhandled out of the room without time to say so much as  _goodbye_ , or  _I'm sorry,_ or  _there's always a place for you wherever I am_. She didn't fully anticipate the anger. Probably should have but was far too preoccupied figuring out how to deal with seeing Debbie from across a room where she couldn't touch her or be close to her. She needs her; even now, after every yelling match, every night not beside her, _everything_. 

 

[GETTING THERE]

She doesn't think anything has ever felt quite as good as Lou's arms wrapping around her, over the centre console. The smell of her shampoo, and the soft velvet of her jacket, the feeling of  _belonging_  somewhere is overwhelming. 

"Hey, hey, take it easy. Been in the slammer."  
"Oh, I just thought you'd changed your number." 

It sort of feels like everything is exactly as it was. Like none of it happened. She knows it did, though. Still has the bitter aftertaste of everything she could have said--should have said lingering in her mouth. Breathing the same air as Lou again helps, cleanses her palate somehow, replaces the taste of  _spoiled_  with crisp and a little bit sweet.


	2. Missing Puzzle Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her voice feels rough, sounds forced, breathing out the question that’s weighed heavy on her mind for almost six years  
> ...
> 
> The words slip out barely above a whisper, she doesn't mean them to slip out at all  
> ...
> 
> And the full silence comes back—heavier; weighing more and more the longer it lasts. It constricts around Debbie’s lungs, around her heart, around her throat until she can’t breathe and her hands start to shake and she pulls away

Brick and mortar breathe in a rhythm of their own. The old wood floors aren’t  _quite_  level; the worn banisters aren’t quite  _smooth_ ; the plaster walls show their fault lines—inner workings almost- _almost_  close enough to the surface to see, watch,  _comprehend_.

The loft is  _Lou_  in all of its quirks. Spectacular in the ways that are just unexpected enough, utterly unapologetic. But the high ceilings and the larger-than-life air? Those are Deb.

The first time Lou stepped inside she could all but  _feel_  her raining down from the arches overhead and it felt like home, then and there, because it felt like Deb, and Deb is the only  _home_  Lou’s ever had, the only one she’s ever wanted to hold on to, come back to.

The space feels  _right_  with Debbie in it, now. Less empty.  
Or maybe it’s Lou that feels less empty having Deb beside her again.

"These are all Russians."  
"They're hackers."  
"Are there no hackers who aren't Russian?"  
"No, there's barely any Russians who aren't hackers."  
“Just keep looking, please.”  
“Sure.” 

She's restless. Folds a page filled with line after line of rejected contacts into an airplane to shoot across the table at Debbie who doesn't bat an eye, reflexes sharp as ever. All the time apart apparently did nothing to lower her tolerance for Lou's distracted tendencies.

Truth be told, Lou already has a hacker in mind—has only met her personally once before but has heard her name—the one she goes by, at least—drifting through multiple circles. She's  _good_ ; the kind of good they need for this job. Lou knows she won’t be the instant sell for Debbie that she was for herself, though. Knows she’ll have to mediate, at least at the start. But also knows they’ll both come around—Lou’s sure of it. Positive that the two of them will find their common ground because underneath the fronts they both put on day-in, day-out, they're a lot alike—charisma, and attitude, and the kind of confidence that can only be earned by being the best through unrelenting perfectionism and single-minded determination. 

She watches Debbie wrapped up in page after page, chews the inside of her bottom lip a little while she does, isn't used to seeing this side of Debbie while they work, literally. They always used to sit side by side until Lou couldn't sit still anymore and would stand, lean over Debbie's shoulder, fiddle with the ends of Debbie's hair, the collar of her shirt while double-checking blueprints, and security codes, and timelines that Debbie pointed to in silent questions. They've always excelled at silence.  _Full_  silence that wraps around them, ties them inextricably together with strings that have never broken despite just how tattered some sections have become. Sitting with the table between them feels distant.

"How'd you end up in prison?"

Her voice feels rough, sounds forced, breathing out the question that’s weighed heavy on her mind for almost six years. Deborah Ocean is not an amateur, does not trip over plans, did not get taken down by  _Con 101._ Debbie doesn't say anything, lifts her eyes and raises a single eyebrow.

"Don't do that. We both know you're smarter than him."   
"Maybe I'm not."  
"Bullshit, Deb. Come off it."  
"I was distracted."  
"Distracted by  _what?_ " 

Lou doesn't get an answer. Debbie abandons the pretense of work and gets up, wanders into the kitchen, puts the kettle on the stove and turns the element on; pulls a mug out of the cupboard over the microwave—the mug that was her favourite in the days of that crappy apartment, before she left, before Lou asked her to go—drops a teabag into the bottom, stands and stares looking for answers in the paper-encased, still-dry tea leaves.

"Debs?"

She startles a little at Lou's voice so close behind her; throws Lou off. People don't sneak up on Deb, don't catch her off-guard, and somehow Lou's managed to do it without even trying, without an opportune moment, and she used to be able to read her, to know what was going on in her head without having to ask or hear it, but she can't anymore. Can't reach the pieces of Deb that she used to  _know,_  and so lets the silence hang and tries to re-balance. 

Lou waits; waits on Debbie to speak, waits on whatever it is they're doing to make sense to her heart; waits on the kettle to whistle because if Deb's still quiet when that happens she should probably just let it go. 

"I was worried about you."

The words slip out barely above a whisper, she doesn't mean them to slip out at all, intended on making her tea, and staying quiet, and Lou would eventually drop it and in the morning they'd pretend it never happened. But now they’re hanging out in the open and she can’t swallow them back down, can’t face them either, goes back to staring at the tea leaves, waiting for them to tell her what to do.

The kettle whistles. Lou pulls it off the stove, uses pouring steaming water into the mug on the counter top as an excuse to step-up close to Debbie. Turns to make sure she puts it down on a trivet, but doesn’t step away. Two decades of sharing school lockers, and dingy motel rooms, and tiny apartments, and everything in between turned Lou’s space a little bit Debbie’s, and Debbie’s space a little bit Lou’s, a long time ago. Six years isn’t nearly enough time to undo bone-deep habits. She brushes Debbie’s hair over her shoulder, down her back, runs her fingers through the waves. Debbie fiddles with the string hanging over the lip of her mug from the teabag.

“Is it really that surprising?”  
“That you’d be distracted? Yes, actually.”  
“That I’d worry about you.” 

And the  _full_  silence comes back—heavier; weighing more and more the longer it lasts. It constricts around Debbie’s lungs, around her heart, around her throat until she can’t breathe and her hands start to shake and she pulls away, and away, and away, not processing what she’s doing until she’s standing outside the loft, shrugging into her grey wool coat, shoving her hands into the pockets. She walks because turning around and going back inside doesn’t feel like much of an option, doesn’t feel like something she knows  _how_  to do, doesn’t feel like something she should be  _allowed_ to do. Lou’s let her walk back into her life like nothing ever changed; fall back into old patterns like it’s yesterday; let it feel like the easiest thing in the world until the moment in the kitchen washed over her. Reminded her that everything’s changed, that she left, that she let Lou down over and over and over.

She wonders, briefly, if this is what lost feels like. If this is what it feels like to fade away. Shakes the notion off quickly because she’s an  _Ocean_. She can only imagine what her  _father_ would say if he knew what she was thinking about. Doesn’t want to imagine the back-hand she’d most likely have already received if he knew how much of a hold Lou still has on her because her father didn’t believe in love, didn’t believe in letting other people be strong for him. Debbie knows better, intellectually, knows that she’s always been better for the place Lou’s had in her life, in her bloodstream, in her heartbeat. It’s leaving the emotional reflexes behind that’s the complicated part.

*

Lou’s frozen watching her slip away; out of her reach, across the room, out the door with a barely audible  _click_.

Deja-vu.

It’s been so easy having Deb beside her again. So easy to pull two mugs instead of one out of the cupboard in the morning; second-nature to come home from the club at all-hours a little more quietly than she did when the place was empty; easy to take for granted the smell of the shampoo Debbie still uses floating out of the bathroom with the steam from the shower every morning. And, apparently, still just as easy to push and push, and then freeze when it gets to be too much.

She knows Deb, though. Even with whatever distance there is between them right now. Knows Deb well enough to know that she’ll come back again and again and again, and one more time after that until the day Lou asks her not to. And Lou won’t ever ask her not to; not again. She let Deb down just as much as Deb let her down and she’ll find a way to cross whatever it is between them because she’s never apologized for being who she is, and she isn’t going to start now because when they were younger, and naïve, and living off cheap liquor and cheaper coffee Debbie read her the riot act the times she tried to be sorry for the way she walks and talks and feels and moves. More than all of that she’s  _Deb’s_ , no matter what pieces she has to find a way to fit back together. 

 


	3. It's Quiet Until It's Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She understands the logistics of it. It's begrudging, riddled with old wounds she thought she'd licked closed years ago, complicated by feelings of her own shortcomings, but she does understand
> 
> ...
> 
> She sits, and she watches the water without actually seeing it, and she waits for it to start making sense. It never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little bit shorter than the previous two, but the next one should go back to being longer (I say as though I have it all written already...).
> 
> Enjoy!

Time doesn't always heal. Not anything other than physical symptoms. Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes that's all that needs to be fixed. Usually it isn't—this time it isn't. Even a broken arm leaves psychological scars, and fears, and cautionary tales about not riding your bike too fast on gravel roads. Distance—perspective; space—processing; time makes things easier to face, less likely to spill over, simplified to lessons learned, but it doesn't actually heal the twisted-up insides. 

Debbie doesn't talk about prison, how she ended up there, what it feels like to be  _chilled_  from the inside-out all the time. Lou doesn't bring it up. The full silence works for them; as much as it's filled with blanks that weren't there before, it's also filled with the quiet acknowledgement that the physical distance won't happen again, that neither of them could do it again. 

It's silent until it's not.

It's silent until Lou's blind-sided and blindingly angry. Until she slams the front door after crossing the warehouse at a clipped pace. Revs her bike, hits the gas, disappears in the direction of the club. Concentrates on traffic signals, and the lines on the pavement, and keeping her hands from shaking on the handlebars. She can't live without Deb again. She gets it— _gets_  the last time. Might as well have pushed her into his arms herself, then. This time was supposed to be different.

She understands the logistics of it. It's begrudging, riddled with old wounds she thought she'd licked closed years ago, complicated by feelings of her own shortcomings, but she does  _understand_.

They need the finger to point somewhere other than them. They need it to be believable enough that it doesn't come around to point at them later, and she doesn't blame Deb for wanting a bit of vengeance, wanting the last word. She wishes she wouldn't—wishes she could keep Debbie from going after him because she wants to keep her  _safe._

The hurt caught her with her guard down. The wave crashed down over top of her—deafening—at not hearing about it first-hand. Being left to find out like she's any other member of the team rather than Deb's right-hand and maybe they've drifted further than she thought they had and she doesn't know if she'll ever actually be able to get across that space again. At a red light she squeezes her eyes shut and then forces them wide open, forces the tears to dry out before they fall. 

 

*

 

She watches Lou stalk away. Knows better than to follow her. Sits on one of the concrete barriers at the edge of the sand and stares out at the water. 

In the quiet and the  _alone_  she knows why she kept Claude's role from Lou. Didn't mean for her to find out like this. Didn't do enough to prevent it from going this way, either. Has been telling herself that she didn't want to start a fight over something that could just as easily have not come through. But that's an excuse and she knows it. A sweet little thought that made it easier to look at herself in the mirror every morning, and sit across from Lou at the table, and lean into Lou on the couch at night, and let herself be close to Lou in the way that she's never wanted to be close to anybody else. 

Maybe, just to herself, she can admit that she’s  _scared._ Scared to let Lou down; scared that Lou won’t want her around  _again_ , that she'll have to face the look in Lou's eyes sending her away one more time, that she'll have to try to figure out who she is without Lou again; maybe, most of all, scared that she'll have to face down the demons that have been following her around since her release, the ones that are a little quieter, just a little easier to ignore when Lou's beside her.   

They've ended up  _here_  just the same.  

So she sits, and she watches the water without actually seeing it, and she waits for it to start making sense. It never does.

 

*

"So, Debbie and Lou?"  
"Don't ask."

Tammy doesn't expect the first question to come from Nine-Ball. She's less surprised when Constance and Amita sidle up to the counter to join the conversation. 

"But, like, what about—"  
"Nope. I'm not saying anything."   
"But you  _know_  something?"  
"Maybe multiple somethings?"

She focuses on the vegetables she's chopping into a salad to go with dinner. Deb and Lou are just  _Deb and Lou_. She's fairly certain that nobody outside the two of them have the full story about the rough-patch, or the aftermath, and even if she did it wouldn't be her story to tell. She's spent more than two decades watching them circle each other, watching them fight each other, and love each other, fight loving each other, neither of them knowing what to do with something  _so_  fundamental to themselves that exists outside their own bodies. She thinks that might be the problem. Neither of them ever learned how to just  _be_. Survival in both of their lives before the other was about going, and running, and holding on to the things that meant more, but never too tight—never so tight that you could be torn apart if what you were holding on to suddenly veered in the opposite direction. 

Then, just when she's bracing to shield them from each other, when she’s sure one of them is going to veer and leave the other shattered, there come the moments where they _do_ hold on _just_ a little tighter; _just_ to each other; _just_ until apprehension built-up over years of being left behind—before they ever met each other—gets to be too much. Tammy's  _seen_  those moments, and if Deb and Lou could just  _see_  the way they fall into each other, the way they sync up, the way the rest of the world starts to balance its axis around  _them_  in those moments, they'd never even think about letting go again.

She can't make them see it, though. They have to do that for themselves--leading a horse to water and all that. They're getting closer, she can see that too, but they have to make it long enough to collide before they burn away. 

 

*

 

She sits until the cold from the concrete seeps through her jeans, creeps up her spine, joins the chill that settled deep inside her in solitary, until she's cold through and through. Forces her body to move back across the pavement, slips into the loft through the side door, and emergency stairs, moves along the lofted walkway towards her bedroom in the shadows. Can't not hear the girls and Tammy downstairs despite trying to block it out. 

"But she left Lou?"  
"Technically, yes."  
"So, then--"  
"It's complicated."  
"Complicated?"  
"Yes, complicated, and messy, and I don't think they've ever stopped putting each other before themselves even when it’s meant giving each other up."  
"But that's—"  
"Complicated."

She thinks about slamming a door, or letting her footsteps turn loud—giving Tammy an out from the conversation and all the deflection she's currently doing on behalf of her and Lou. She can't bring herself to do it, though; can't break through the numb; can't do much other than close her door quietly and head for the en-suite bathroom that links her room to Lou's. She turns the shower to near-scalding, strips down and shivers when cool air hits her skin, steps under the spray and forces herself not to pull back, not to turn down the temperature; tries to let the water wash away the parts of herself she'd rather not feel anymore. If she lets the water run over her face the tears don't count.

 

*

The anger's faded by the time Lou comes home from the club. Being angry is exhausting. There's enough going on in her life that takes up her energy without adding something else to the laundry-list.

She  _misses_  Deb. Misses occupying the same space in a room; misses the shape of Deb in her bed; misses knowing Deb would come to her when something went wrong. She knows there's something wrong. Can tell Deb hasn't been sleeping—doesn't matter how well she paints over the dark circles or compensates with caffeine. The girls haven't noticed anything, she doubts even Tammy's noticed, but she's known the ins and outs of Deborah Ocean long enough to see that her smirks are tempered, her voice has an edge, and late at night her hands start to shake just a little. 

 


	4. Outlines of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She takes off her make-up under the glow of the vanity-lights in the bathroom.  
> Streaks of black eyeliner and mascara, smudges of lipstick, blots of foundation turning the white facecloth into watercolour, left hanging haphazardly over the edge of the claw-foot tub
> 
> ...
> 
> "You left—then, I mean."  
> "You asked me to."  
> "I know." 
> 
> ...
> 
> "Do you want me to leave again—after?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this one took a bit more "oomf" than I was expecting it to take,  
> but I hope you enjoy!

Even the air feels distracted when she walks in—crowding into all of the nooks and crannies where things unsaid have tucked themselves away.

The lamp beside the couch, in the middle of the would-be living room, the only light still switched on downstairs, throws how vast the space is into stark perspective. She didn't expect to adjust to having other bodies moving through the space in tandem with her so easily. Well, one body. One body that makes the space feel the way she'd meant it to feel when she bought it.

She leaves the lamp on. The last time she turned all the lights off when she came home late at night Constance got up for a snack an hour later and, in the dark, managed to catapult herself down the stairs and into the floor lamp that used to be beside the couch. Lou had never particular liked the old one, was fairly content to be able to replace it. Constance spent the following three days insisting that they had all missed out on a spectacular display of acrobatics, only appearing from various rooms at the noise of the lamp being destroyed, missing the entire pre-amble.

“Cirque du Soleil would have been  _all over_  it!”  
“At 3a.m.?”  
“You can’t put a timer on greatness.” 

Lou would prefer to avoid a repeat performance.

The third stair from the bottom creaks under her weight, always has. She doesn't even hear it anymore. If anybody complains, they're more than welcome to spend the nights at their own homes. Walking along the hallway to the master bedroom at the very end, Lou takes note of each door she passes—how they give away bits and pieces of each member of their team. Bits and pieces that they might not offer up during waking hours.

Tammy leaves her door open. Just a bit, just enough for little feet to shuffle through, know she’s there in case of a nightmare. Even when she's away from the suburbs the habit seems to be ingrained.

Nine-Ball closes hers tight. Lou's heard the lock click more than once. Their hacker is the most reserved of the group, offering bits and pieces of herself at intervals that don't allow much of it to be woven together. But, Lou's gathered that life hasn't been easy for her or the younger sister she's trying to take care of. She remembers the days of checking and re-checking that any doors between her and the outside world were dead-bolted and chained before even thinking about closing her eyes: the days after she ran away from Australia, before she met Deb. And once she had Deb she’d check the locks a third time because it wasn’t just herself she needed to keep safe anymore.

Amita's door is always closed, never locked.

Constance varies. Flails a hand behind her in the direction of the door on her way to collapse into bed. Leaves it as open or closed as the effort has it landing on any given night.

And Rose, usually the first to turn in and also the most anxious of the lot, leaves hers wide open regardless of the noise levels going on while she's trying to fall asleep.

Debbie’s door, right next to her own, is closed; probably locked. She stands in front of it for a few minutes, thinks about knocking. Thinks about saying she’s sorry, even if she doesn’t know what she’s sorry  _for_ , maybe just for where they  _are_  even if the blame doesn’t lie with either of them completely. Doesn’t have any idea what she’d do if Debbie closed the door in her face. Raises her hand anyways. Drops it before her knuckles make contact with the wood, exhales, and moves on to her own room. If Debbie’s managed to fall asleep she should leave her to whatever small number of hours she can get.

Necklaces come off one by one—armor landing on top of the dresser, piece by piece.   
The series of small clinks and muted thuds marking the process of untangling herself along with the web of chains, bit by bit. 

She takes off her make-up under the glow of the vanity-lights in the bathroom.   
Streaks of black eyeliner and mascara, smudges of lipstick, blots of foundation turning the white facecloth into watercolour, left hanging haphazardly over the edge of the claw-foot tub. 

She half expected the door on Debbie's side of the bathroom to be closed tonight, after earlier, but it's open, the lights in her room are turned off. She catches it out of the corner of her eye while brushing her teeth—the silhouette curled into the corner of the couch against the far wall of Debbie's bedroom, adjacent the window; back ramrod straight, streaks of light from the city outside cast across her features. She can't sleep again. Lou knows. Any remnants of anger from earlier melt away seeing Deb sitting in the starlight wearing a faded Fleetwood Mac shirt that was definitely originally Lou's, leggings, bare feet; dark circles under her eyes, bed obviously untouched. Lou wonders if it's been touched more than a handful of times since she came home from prison at all. 

She spits the last of the toothpaste foam into the sink, rinses her mouth, and lets her resolve shift from the inside of her head down to her heart. She pads softly into Debbie's room, sinks into the opposite end of the couch. Lou knows Deb knows she's there, doesn't say anything for a while though. Debbie watches the city lights, Lou watches Debbie. Sees the muscles pulled taught down the back of her neck; the set of her jaw; hair wild from fingers run through the waves too many times. It's eventually Lou that breaks the quiet. 

"You left— _then,_  I mean."  
"You asked me to."  
"I know." 

Lou's voice is soft, she isn't angry anymore. The afternoon's anger faded before she even made it to the club. She remembers being  _angry_ , years ago now. Remembers a time when blurring-at-the-edges red was all she could see. She brought girl after girl home to the apartment, the room, the bed she shared with Deb, fucked them and kicked them out. They all looked like her—brown hair, dark eyes, long legs, hips she could dig her fingers into—none of them ever got to spend the night. She said things she’d like to deny came out of her mouth, didn't much feel like being kind. But as the feelings tempered, and she remembered there was a side of the story other than hers, noticed the blank spaces in her life that Deb had always been the one to fill, not being angry became second nature. 

Debbie stays at her end of the couch when she speaks again, voice barely above a whisper, laced with soft, unexpected resolve.

"Do you want me to leave again—after?"

She offers Lou the out, the opportunity to take the life she's built without her and  _live_  it. Lou couldn't do that even if she tried, though. No part of her ever saw that life without Debbie in it. She could live on her own—doesn't need Debbie to get up in the morning, or be able to fall asleep at night, doesn't even need her to be able to laugh or live or love riding her bike too fast. She wants her, though, and for Lou  _want_  has always meant more than need. 

She moves forward, loops an arm around Debbie's waist, waits until she feels her lean back into her chest to shift again; settles leaning back against the arm of the couch with Debbie between her legs, wrapped up in her arms.

"You  _belong_  here."

And Debbie  _breathes_  for the first time in weeks. Breathes a full breath of Lou, of knowing  _this_  is her homecoming, that she can  _be_  here, with Lou. That she can stop making contingency plans for every version of  _after_  that her exhausted mind has come up with, has been running circles around. 

“I would have stayed, you know.”  
“What?”  
“If you’d asked. You only ever had to ask.”

"Deb?"  
"Mmm?"  
"When was the last time you slept— _actually_  slept?"

Lou doesn't really expect Debbie to answer, and she doesn't. Doesn't move from where she is, either, and that's something. She brings a hand to fiddle with the ring still on Lou's fingers, the one she hardly ever takes off—an unassuming, unstamped platinum signet ring on her index finger. Debbie gave it to her—stole it for her. Right off the pinky finger of a smarmy business school graduate whose ego was far bigger than the seams of his off-the-rack suit and knock-off Manolos could contain.

_He spent half the evening making lewd passes at Debbie. Lou found it mildly amusing, watching him flail trying to get her attention. She found it amusing right up until he put his hands on her waist, tugged her in towards him when she walked by. Lou was off her barstool, on her feet, and halfway across the room before he even had the chance to finish calling Debbie ‘Baby Girl.’_

_It wasn’t until they were back in their apartment, emptying swiped wads of cash and watches from their pockets, that Debbie held the ring out to Lou, shining in the middle of her open palm. She didn’t even know when Debbie swiped it, remembered the cool feeling of it against her hand when she twisted his wrist around in the direction it wasn’t supposed to twist._  

 _“What’s that for?”  
__“The only person I_ want _buying my drinks and putting their hands on my body.”_

 

*

 

Lou opens her eyes to Debbie jerking against the arms wrapped around her. Eyes closed tight, lips a thin line, something beyond the real world chasing her down where she can’t get away—is _this_ why she hasn’t been sleeping if she can avoid it?

Debbie’s body is awake all at once. Her mind takes a little longer to find its way _out._  

She’s yanking herself up, pushing herself off the couch—away—almost faster than Lou can process. Almost. Lou reaches out, manages to snag the hem of Debbie’s shirt, tries to slow her down but she’s stronger than she looks, and decided on bolting, manages to tug herself free when her shirt rides up and Lou freezes. Locks herself in the bathroom and turns the shower on before Lou has any chance of getting across the room.

Lou _isn’t_ following her, though; isn’t moving anymore; frozen in place by the image of the jagged line crossing the back of Debbie’s left hip that just burned into her mind. There wasn’t a thing about Debbie _before_ that she didn’t know. Not a birthmark, not a scar, not a single quirk she didn’t have memorized, and she didn’t know _that_ line.

There wasn’t a line on Lou’s body that Deb didn’t know, either. She spent a full year taking that inventory—always one at a time. Quiet and careful and never more than Lou could handle talking about at once. Each time she’d find one she didn’t _know_ yet her touch would turn softer, gentler. She’d trace it with her fingertips, lay her palm over top warming Lou’s skin with her own, and wait until Lou could gather her thoughts, align her words, and start to speak.

 _After_ Deb would trace the marks on Lou’s skin with her lips, and her tongue, and her teeth. Leave a mark of her own—albeit less permanent—over top, making sure the world knew that Lou Miller belonged to Deborah Ocean, and nobody got to lay an unwanted hand on her anymore.

 

*

 

The shower is ice-cold rather than scalding-hot while she holds herself under the spray this time, shocks her mind out of the loop it plays every time she falls asleep. Blurred images, memories of her cell-block’s _Ring Leader_ slicing her open while she slept.

_“Nobody on the outside to pay your dues for you anymore, Ocean.”_

It was just after she found out Danny was dead, or maybe it was just before. She doesn’t even remember anymore. Too many nightmares twisting it up in her mind that she can barely keep reality straight from the dreams anymore.

 

*

 

Lou’s in front of the bathroom door with a bobby pin in her hand before she realizes what she’s doing, sighs, and steps away. Barging in and forcing whatever happened out of Debbie probably won’t help either of them, for now.

“Dammit Deb.” She’s going to have to make it back to her own bedroom undetected via the hall.

 


	5. Had to be You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Debbie looks at the floor, at the matte black buttons on Lou’s leopard print coat, at the concrete blurring past the windows. Anywhere but at Lou’s face. Anywhere but the gaze that would undo all of the things she’s knotted inside of herself. She doesn’t see the question in Lou’s eyes, just feels her hand move from her arm to her waist, tugs her even a little closer than she already is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little update that took me WAY too long to write.  
> Next one should be longer and faster to arrive.
> 
> Enjoy!!

There’s more than one kind of cold.

When the temperature drops, and the weather turns, skin chaps exposed to the wind.

And isolation. Being left alone until your mind travels circles too tight to break, builds walls too high to see, burrows into cracks in the rock so deep you can't climb back out. It creeps in slow— _slow_ —slowly. So slowly you don't even notice until your lungs contract, and your blood slows down, and you hear every pop-crack-snap each time you try to move. 

She isn't sure she's ever been so cold in her life.

 

*

 

Debbie sweeps down the stairs. Crosses the floor, steps punctuated by the click of her heels against hardwood, moves to where Lou is leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee cradled in one hand, holding out another mug to Debbie—steaming green tea. Their fingers brush when the mug changes hands. Lou stops herself from flinching when the temperature of Debbie's fingers registers. Wraps her hand over top, around the mug instead and holds her gaze.

If last night was any indication, it's no wonder Debbie's so tired she's about to collapse. There's a haze lingering in her eyes—coating them into milk chocolate instead of cocoa. Now isn't the time though, so she squeezes Debbie’s fingers and pulls her hand away, brushes her fingers over the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, bringing it to rest back at her own side.

Debbie's forever grateful for Lou. Grateful that she knows when to speak, when to wait, when to reach out and touch because Debbie's on the verge of flying off the surface she's standing on if she doesn't have something to ground her, and Lou's just about the only something that's _ever_ been able to untangle her insides. She's grateful that Lou was  _there_  last night, in a sense. Somehow it feels lighter to have somebody else bear witness to her being ripped out of sleep, again.

Grateful for the silence that Lou's allowing her for the moment.

Words will come later—when the world isn't listening-in. Words that threaten to pour out of her, have been verging on pouring out of her since she climbed into the passenger seat of Lou's Toyota in the cemetery.

 

*

 

Lou’s sliding into her coat and following Nine-Ball and Debbie out the door, to check the blind spot cameras, without a second thought. Strictly speaking they don’t need her for this.

The strings inside her—the ones that tie her to Debbie—are screaming for the slack to not reel back out, not to let Debbie too far out of her sight again. So, she goes, doesn’t have anything else terribly important to be doing anyways.

 

*

 

“Twelve feet, nice work. Thank you, Nine-Ball.”

Lou lets out a breath she hadn’t entirely realized she was holding watching Debbie cross Nine-Ball’s screen, moving towards the museum exit. It worked—it was ready to go. Or maybe the relief came from the knowledge that Deb would be within arm’s reach again in the next handful of minutes.

Separation is a peculiar thing. Lou’s never had trouble being on her own—spent the first half of her life fending for herself most of the time. Then she met Deb. Deb, who became her touch-stone the first time Lou ever touched her, standing in the kitchen, beside the counter, at a house party some senior she didn’t even think she knew was throwing. Threw her hand out without needing to turn around, closing around Debbie’s wrist when she felt quick fingers sliding one of the wallets she’d stolen from drunk party-goers out of her back pocket. She whipped around to lock gazes with the most scandalous brown eyes she’d ever seen, _sparkling_ at her while their owner held Lou’s own wallet up in her other hand.

_“It’s about time you noticed. I’ve been trying to get your attention all night.”_

Deb, who became her touch stone, her secret-keeper, her first and last line of defence. The one exception to every rule that makes up Lou Miller.

 

*

 

Squeezed into a subway car at rush hour, Debbie’s standing pressed up against Lou, jostled closer by people trying to get through to exit at the next station. Nine-Ball has ended up somewhere on the other side of the crowd.

The clang is nothing out of the ordinary—a metal keychain dangling where somebody’s bag isn’t quite zipped all the way closed making contact with a handrail.

Metal on metal. Cell doors smashing closed, locking; a baton being dragged across the bars by James, the night CO who would leer, watching her change her clothes like a new reality TV show, eyes dripping over her skin inch by inch; being locked into the space with a cellmate that made her disdain for Debbie’s name more than apparent.

Debbie freezes; Her skin prickles, she can feel the polyester prison jumpsuit chafing her skin; is on the verge of jerking away from the hand that’s wrapping around her upper arm, on the edge of violently ripping herself as far away from the touch as she can, when she recognizes the feeling of long fingers, and smooth skin, and cool metal rings. Lou.

Debbie looks at the floor, at the matte black buttons on Lou’s leopard print coat, at the concrete blurring past the windows. Anywhere but at Lou’s face. Anywhere but the gaze that would undo all of the things she’s knotted inside of herself. She doesn’t see the question in Lou’s eyes, just feels her hand move from her arm to her waist, tugs her even a little closer than she already is.

She leans into Lou’s touch. Needs Lou to understand that she  _needs_ the silence for just a little longer. That she's trying to line the words up inside of herself. Lou hears her as clearly as if she’d said it out loud—of _course_ she does. Tightens her hold on Debbie’s waist and breathes measured breaths for Debbie to match with her own inhale-exhales.

 

*

 

Standing next to Lou in the kitchen; going over pages of notes, check-lists, contingency plans; Lou at her shoulder, front brushing along her back, Debbie let’s things click into place, leans back into Lou just a little, and speaks the first of the words she’s been holding in.

“There was never any version of this that worked—that I wanted, without you.”

 


	6. Don't Need a Confessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debbie's quiet. Quiet for so long that Lou loses count of the seconds when she can't hear the ticking of the clock over the pounding from her heart in her chest anymore. And then Debbie speaks; softly shifts all of the ground under Lou's feet. 
> 
> "I know—I knew."  
> "What?"  
> "Your jewelry wasn't all over the counter when I came over to get ready. You over ever put it away when we were going somewhere, but we didn't have anything like that planned."  
> "Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little back-story, a little communication, a little soft.
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

They've built their life on secrets.

Secrets and lies that they've woven into _versions_  of the truth under the cover of neon lights and cigarette smoke; silk and satin and stolen lipstick. The world hasn't ever seen them—not really. Not underneath the haze. The world doesn't know how bright Lou's eyes sparkle in the afterglow, or how wild Debbie's hair is fanned across her pillow. They don't have a clue how soft Lou's fingertips are tracing the ridges of Debbie's spine.  

They've built their life on keeping secrets from the world.  
They've never known how to keep secrets from each other. 

"I almost left you, once." 

Lou looks at her feet when she says it, thumbs hooked into the front pockets of her leather pants; shrugs a little, leans against the edge of the counter next to Debbie. She'd never wanted to leave. Not since the first time she met Deb, not since they became  _them_.

Life's always had a funny way of taking the things she wants and taking them away. 

*

 _Fresh-faced and sharp-eyed, they ran a job instead of going to prom. Low-risk; just for the fun of it. Walked out with a strapped stack of hundred dollar bills and a pair of outrageously crimson velvet ankle boots. Lou knew it would be their last—hadn't told Debbie. Wasn't planning on telling Debbie. The money she'd stashed away before leaving Australia had finally dwindled. Even with her 50% cut from all of their_ extracurricular _activities helping to stretch it out, she couldn't afford an apartment in New York, let alone the cost of living in the city, anymore._

_It was going be her farewell._

_She'd take the boots—a souvenir of the best years of her life._  
_She'd leave her cut—something to make up for vanishing into thin air, pathetic as it was.  
_ _She'd hope Deb would forgive her one day, and maybe, somehow understand._

_"Stay with me tonight."_

_The words were a breath across Lou's lips while Deb cradled her cheeks with her hands—fingers cold, palms warm. And she never had figured out how to deny Debbie much of anything. Just a few more hours, a few more moments to hold on to. One more chance to stand guard over her while her features soften, her eyes flutter closed, her breaths turn deep and steady. She'd slip away after._

_She met Deb's eyes and nodded her head slowly. Just a few more hours._  

 

 _"Who's place is this?"  
_ _"Danny's. I have a room in the basement."_

_Debbie didn't take Lou to the brownstone her parents owned—the place that stifled and suffocated and ran like run-down, losing-time clockwork under the ever-watchful eye of her father and his rules about the Ocean Legacy. She brought her to a small townhouse, on a bustling street, with a dark green front door. Led her inside and down a flight of carpeted stairs, into her room where the floor was littered with clothes, and shoes, and blueprints, and pieces of loose leaf paper covered in her loopy scrawl._

_"Not expecting company, I take it?"  
_ _"You don't count as company. You're... you."_

_The words were insufficient, but then, she didn’t know any words that wouldn't be for what Lou was—always—to her._

_"Drink?"  
_ _"Yeah, sure."_

_Debbie disappeared back down the hall, up the stairs, towards the kitchen—at least, Lou assumed._

_Lou toed off her shoes, sank down on Debbie's bed where it was tucked into the corner of the room, photos tacked to the wall above the pillows. She plucked one from where it hung—a photo strip; a little bent at the corners, a little faded at the edges. Four freeze-frames of her and Deb the first time they went to Coney Island. The time they didn't manage to pick-pocket anything of note. Ate themselves sick on cotton candy and rode the ferris wheel for hours before Debbie hauled Lou into the photobooth._

_“Smile!”_ Flash. _“Make a face!”_ Flash. _“Come on, Lou, play along! It’s only_ one _minute of your life!” Flash. “I never want to forget today.”_ Flash.

 _There was something significant about the sugar rush, and the sunset, and the pack of Wrigley's gum they thought was going to be a wallet when Lou slid it out of a tourists back pocket—sweet on Debbie's breath._ _That was the day she realized she loved her; that she'd always loved her; that she'd always_ love _her._

_"That was a good day."_

_Debbie reappeared. Set two steaming mugs on the bedside table—not quite the drink Lou thought she was agreeing to—settled on the bed behind her, propped her chin on Lou's shoulder._

_"You should come to NYU with me in the fall."_  
_"We've talked about this, Deb."_  
_"Come on, baby. It'll be fun. We can sneak into all the Greek-row parties. Con our way through all of their wallets."  
_ _"I didn't even apply, sweetheart."_

 _An acceptance letter appeared in front of Lou. "_ _I sent it in for you."_

_After handing off the paper, Debbie pressed her hands into Lou's waist. Thumbs tracing small circles over the soft fabric of Lou's t-shirt._

_"You could stay here, with me? And Danny and Rusty, but they're barely ever home."_  
_"Deb—"  
_ _"Please, Lou?"_

*

She had stayed because Deb asked, because she couldn't say no to her, because more than anything else she didn't  _want_  to leave; hated that she'd even thought about it. Hated that pride had kept her from being honest with Debbie about what was going on.

She stayed—curled up beside Debbie on the single mattress every night because neither of them could fathom getting a bigger one that would mean they were further away from each other. 

Part of her always thought about confessing—long after the fact when it didn't even matter anymore. But the fear always had her biting her tongue—the fear of how Deb would react to the near-betrayal; that it would hurt her. It had finally spilled out, now, before she'd been able to stop it.

Debbie's quiet. Quiet for so long that Lou loses count of the seconds when she can't hear the ticking of the clock over the pounding from her heart in her chest anymore. And then Debbie speaks; softly shifts all of the ground under Lou's feet. 

"I know—I knew."  
"What?"  
"Your jewelry wasn't all over the counter when I came over to get ready. You only ever put it away when we were going somewhere, but we didn't have anything like that planned."  
"Shit."

And so much of that night falls into place in Lou's mind. 

The way Deb brought her home—hand in hand, quietly refusing to let go until they were both through the front door. The acceptance letter—legitimate but almost definitely the result of calling in a series of favours. The way Deb curled herself around Lou that night—wrapped her up in her arms; pulled Lou back into her chest; holding tight even in her sleep. The way she'd barely been out of Lou's sight for weeks afterwards—barely let Lou out of her sight.

Lou's still leaning against the counter, widens her stance to accommodate Debbie when she moves to stand between her legs, hands finding their way to rest on Debbie’s hips.

"I didn't want to leave, just so you know."  
"I couldn’t let you go."

 


	7. Still, Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lou finds her upstairs, silhouette lit up by the small lamp on her bedside table and the light pollution coming in the window, off the city. The gold swirling across the black of her gown for the gala shimmers where it hangs, half out of the black garment bag, hanger hooked over the top of the closet door. Lou can feel Debbie's insides twisting tight-tight-tighter the longer she stands staring at the dress, it rolls off of her in waves. Lou waits.
> 
> ...
> 
> "Stay?"

_Stillness_  is an acquired taste. 

Time to sift through freeze-frames she doesn't come back to often.   
Space in her mind that sets her jaw.   
Silence that locks her fingers up around the pages of her book when she tries to turn to the next chapter. 

Nobody comes by  _stillness_  honestly. It's stolen when the world least expects it. When they don't see any of it coming at all.

  

*

  

The light from Rose's lamp is harsh—bright white in the middle of the half-lit loft—but she's been fussing over for the same section of needlework for hours so Lou doesn't say anything; swivels her chair around so it's behind her, and goes back to  _The Great Gatsby_ instead. Nine-Ball's been surrounded by a small cloud of sweet-hand-rolled smoke for hours. Constance bounces back and forth, foot to foot, nodding along as Debbie traces the paths each of them will take, possible entrances and exits, actions and reactions to every potential deviation to the plan, around the labyrinth-model of the Met.

Lou closes her eyes and listens to Debbie's voice. The words don't matter, bleed together. It's the even keel, the level tenor, the unhurried phrasing that washes over her when she closes her eyes on a breath in.   
  
"Hi, hi. So sorry I'm late. Traffic was horrible."

Tammy arrives in a tizzy, as though she isn't turning up with gala-ready gowns that will more than likely fit each of them to a  _t_ , because that's Tammy's attention to detail.

Debbie can feel Lou's gaze on her as she crosses the floor, can't resist letting her eyes sweep up and down the lines of her in return—following the deep-v of her burgundy vest where edges of black lace peek out, the way black jeans hug her hips, how her legs trail on and on and on in her heeled boots. Keeps her hand shoved firmly in her back pocket, fighting the tingling in her fingers telling her to reach out; touch, hold on, not let go until  _Lou_  sinks into her skin, becomes a part of her fingerprints. She gets caught, of course. Wasn't trying not to. Meets Lou's look, but can't hold it. Can't handle the intensity while they're in front of an audience, distracted as that audience may currently be, when she's already so close to coming unglued at the seams. Smirks when she looks away, though. Steals another small glance as Lou drapes her respective garment bag over her arms and turns in the direction of her office on the main level. Lou's the only person that's ever been able to rip her guard down with little-to-no-warning and a single, pointed look.

 

 

Lou leans against her mahogany desk, facing the door, her outfit for the next day hanging off to the left of it on a brass hook. It's more a  _vanity_  office space than anything else—somewhere to shut herself away that isn't just her bedroom. Not that she's even had people to shut herself away  _from_  in the loft often over the five years since she bought it. She doesn't actually use it to  _work_  often. But she liked the desk, and the matching bookshelves that line two of the vaulted-ceiling walls. Had a sliding ladder installed because she  _could_. 

She waits five minutes-ten-fifteen. Debbie doesn't appear. They used to have  _rituals_  that weren't so much ritual as they were necessity, when they were younger and less self-assured and risking odds bigger than they maybe should. The planning would end, each piece ready to be played on the board they assembled, and all that was left was waiting for the clock to count down, winding Debbie's insides up and up and up, the only thing that seemed to calm her nerves was Lou. Lou's fingertips and her lips and the stories she'd whisper into the dark. And the only thing that meant Lou could take a full breath to get those whispers out was the shape of Debbie beside her. 

Lou finds her upstairs, silhouette lit up by the small lamp on her bedside table and the light pollution coming in the window, off the city. The gold swirling across the black of her gown for the gala shimmers where it hangs, half out of the black garment bag, hanger hooked over the top of the closet door. Lou can  _feel_  Debbie's insides twisting tight-tight-tighter the longer she stands staring at the dress. It rolls off of her in waves. Lou waits. Waits on Debbie to fill the air with something—anything—other than the  _tick-tick-tick_  from the second hand of the clock hanging on the far wall.

"What if it all falls apart?"  
"Somehow I don't think the sequins and chiffon are going to unravel on you."

Debbie isn't talking about the dress, isn't even talking about the heist. Lou knows that. They've never been good at the parts of them that involve  _words_ and she doesn't try to get good at it now, reaches out to snag Debbie's hand, gentle and sure. Tugs her across the room, through the bathroom, towards the king size bed made-up with Egyptian cotton and silk because Lou spent six years trying to hold onto the ghost of Debbie's immaculate skin against her own, and fine silk and thousand-thread count was the closest thing she found. 

"I shouldn't have left."  
"I should never have asked you to go."

Lou knows what it's like to think about slipping away—to think and feel like it's the only option. To start doing it without even realizing. Piece by piece. It was Deb that held strong almost two decades earlier—Deb that took the pieces of Lou that were threatening to unwind and held them together, held Lou together. Taught her what it felt like to  _know_  where  _home_  was, where home  _is_ , always will be. It's Deb. And now she can feel Debbie unwinding at the edges, slipping away a bit at a time without even realizing it. Can feel her getting lost in the tangles inside of herself that Lou hasn't figured out  _how_  to figure out just yet, but Deb didn't leave  _her_  when the shoe was on the other foot, when Lou felt like she was going to have to walk away from all of it to protect herself, and she's not about to let Deb go this time.

So, just like Debbie did in her basement bedroom, despite the fact that this time they're lying in a king bed with more than enough space to spread out, in contrast to the narrow mattress that had been in Debbie's room at Danny's first house, she curls herself around Debbie—pulls her back into her chest, nuzzles into the curve of her neck to brush her lips against the underside of her jaw. 

"Stay?"

Lou asks because Debbie was the one who left before— _before_ , and it was Lou that asked her go—she doesn't mind sharing the blame if it means she can share her life again, too. 

All Debbie's wanted since she set eyes on Lou again is to stay—never much mattered what she might have to trade over in return. Her plans, her soul, her heartbeat if that's what Lou had asked; anything would have been worth it. It's almost overwhelming, now, in the stillness where all Lou asks for is  _her_. 


	8. What You Mean to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She wants to sleep; almost-almost thought she'd be able to tonight; almost-almost could. For the first time since she got out, the first time in weeks, in months, in years, she feels warm wrapped up in Lou's down comforter, and safe wrapped up in Lou. Like if she closes her eyes they might not snap back open to searing pain, or her own screams, or yelling bouncing off concrete walls from every direction. Might consider trading the heist for a few nights of actual sleep at this point. Knows trying it wouldn't change anything, though, so she doesn't entertain that thought for long. Lies on her side, facing Lou, resisting the urge to brush the fringe off of her forehead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to apologize for the German in this chapter now.  
> I wish I spoke German. I do not.  
> As such, Google Translate was the best I could do... which probably means it's at least mildly abysmal. 
> 
> Also apologize for how short this is, but I hope you all enjoy!

Her eyes hurt.  
Burn from being open for too many hours, too many days on end.  
They're heavy. 

Closing them doesn't get her anywhere.  
Just gives her mind extra space, more torque to race the track it's stuck on inside her head. 

So, she keeps them open.  
Counts out her breathing to keep it slow and level—just because she's awake doesn't mean her partner in crime should have to be.

She wants to sleep; almost- _almost_  thought she'd be able to tonight; almost- _almost_  could. For the first time since she got out, the first time in weeks, in months, in years, she feels warm wrapped up in Lou's down comforter, and safe wrapped up in Lou. Like if she closes her eyes they might not snap back open to searing pain, or her own screams, or yelling bouncing off concrete walls from every direction. Might consider trading the heist for a few nights of actual sleep at this point. Knows trying it wouldn't change anything, though, so she doesn't entertain that thought for long. Lies on her side, facing Lou, resisting the urge to brush the fringe off of her forehead. Lou's not a light sleeper, but she isn’t  _not_  a light sleeper either.

Lou looks a little younger like this—weathered in all the ways that wrap Debbie up the same way her favourite leather jacket drapes over her shoulders when she tucks it around her; but less  _worn_. More like the free-spirited twenty-something that conned her way through coming up with University tuition. But also the same determined twenty-something that studied for every test, and wrote every assignment with enough flare that meant she only had to con half the usual cost of a degree in Cognitive Science because of the scholarships her impressive grades sent her way. 

There's a scar—just a thin line—half hidden along her hairline from the first time she bailed off her bike when she was 18. Debbie can't see it right now, with Lou's hair falling over her face, but she knows it's there. Lou stopped fighting her about wearing a helmet after getting it. 

There are little lines at the outer corners of her eyes that weren't there the last time Debbie was this close to her,  _before_. They send a pang through Debbie's chest, down to her gut. She likes them. They mean that Lou had reasons to laugh and smile while Debbie was gone, and it hurts a little bit to think about all the things she missed, all the things she should have been there for. Hurts a little bit more to think about all the smiles and laughs and smirks that she should have been the cause of. But she likes them all the same. They mean Lou was happy and she's always wanted Lou to be happy. Right alongside wanting pounds and pounds of diamonds, wanting to outdo Danny, wanting to some day be able to go a night without trying to avoid sleep, again. 

She shifts slowly. Lying under the covers isn't doing anything other than giving her mind too much room to spin. Would be better off with a cup of bitter coffee, running timelines one last time, downstairs. 

"You're not leaving this bed."

Accent full of gravel and heavy, Lou drags her arms around Debbie's waist to pull her closer. It's when she opens her eyes that Debbie's inhale catches because Lou smiles a little and the lines by her eyes deepen, and her cheekbones are as sharp as they ever have been, and  _this_  smile is only for her. 

"I didn't mean to wake—"  
"You're thinking too loud for me to stay asleep."

Lou's words are whispers, hand raking through the tangles in Debbie's hair, soft, pulling her in, closer still, until she settles against Lou, settles  _into_  Lou, until she's pressed up against her down to toes and she can't  _get_ any closer.

“Do you want to talk?”

The  _about why you can’t sleep_ ,  _about what happened_ ,  _about the things that hunt you when you let your guard down_  are all implied. Debbie bows her head; traces the dips of Lou’s collar bones with her fingers; a little ashamed, a little chastised, maybe a little sad. Meet’s Lou’s eyes again when a finger under her chin forces her head, and her gaze back up.

  
Lou doesn’t get any words in return to her question. Debbie pushes up, presses forward instead, seals their lips together—soft and sandman-drunk and hungry. Debbie’s mind is reeling with all the words that she  _should_  say. All of the  _I’m sorry’s_ , and the explanations, and probably the grovelling about the regrets. It’s Lou that pulls back, just far enough to be able to look Debbie in the eye again when she speaks, less sleep-laced this time, more dazed on Debbie Ocean. And she knows. She knows Deb's sorry, that she has more regrets than she can count, that she'd change it if she could.

Lou wouldn't though, much as it hurt. She'd walk through  _then_  and  _before_  every time over as long as it got them to  _here_  and  _now_. And she's just as awful at words as Debbie is, leans back in towards another kiss and Debbie's eyes  _shimmer—_ one part sunrise streaming in through the curtains, one part mirth, and all relief. 

 

*

 

Her eyes shimmer the same way walking into the exhibit, and a little more reflecting off her dress. Yen's hanging from the ceiling, and Debbie's all but twinkling standing beside Lou, close enough for their arms to brush each time either of them pulls a breath in. She knows Lou's watching her out of the corner of her eye—can feel the heat raking down her neck, over her bare shoulder, imagines it's Lou's hand in a small moment of indulgence, pressing down the curve of her back instead of just her gaze. And then she's slipping out of the space to play the distraction, carrying on in German that none of the security guards can understand—they're sure, had Nine-Ball double check the staff listings for the night to make sure nobody would be bilingual.

“Hände weg! Wissen Sie, wie viel dies kostet." _[Hands off! Do you know how much this cost?]_  

Lou’s spent enough years with Deb that not picking up at least a few bits and pieces of German, here and there would have been impossible. That one, in particular, she'll remember forever. 

_Lou leaned on her elbows, forward against the bar and finished off her drink while waiting for Debbie to re-appear from the bathroom. She could feel the bass pumping through the speakers, from the DJ even more than she could hear it. The Berlin nightlife scene was everything she’d hoped and expected it to be, and a few things she hadn’t._

_Deb was 25. Lou would be too, soon._

_She could feel a shift beginning—below the surface and never stated out-loud. Not a shift between them—never between them. They were the constant in the midst of it all. No, more like it was time for them to hit the big leagues; time to make real waves. They did fly all the way to Germany for a job to ring in Deb’s quarter-century after all—a mix of business and pleasure. The two have never not been intertwined where they’re concerned._

_Hands on her hips, tugging her towards the dance floor made Lou smirk. Count on Deb to find a way to sneak up on her even with her vantage point facing the direction of the bathroom. She spun around to find auburn curls and red lips pouting up at her, words that might as well have been ancient Greek for all Lou could understand getting lost in the noise of the place while the hands that had moved from her hips to her waist continued to try and tug her out onto the dance floor._

“Nicht interes—" _[Not interest—]_

 _Deb reappeared before Lou could finish stumbling over one of the few phrases she’d let Debbie teach her on their red-eye over the Atlantic._

“Hände weg!" _[Hands off!]_

 _Deb plucked the girls hands off of Lou, pushed them away, wrapped her own arm possessively around her waist._

“Wissen Sie, wie viel dies kostet." _[do you know how much this cost?]_ _  
_ “Ich kann mir leisten, was auch immer ihr Preis ist." _[I can afford whatever her price is.]_

“Die Jacke vielleicht. Sie? Sie ist zu teuer, um darüber nachzudenken. _" [The jacket? Maybe._ She’s _too expensive for you to even think about.]_

_The girl’s lips moved with something Lou couldn’t be bothered to hear over the music, let alone understand when Debbie’s lips latched onto the side of her neck, teeth scraping over the hot spot just under her jaw. The girl finally tired of the show and walked away when Lou’s eyes fell closed, fingers toying with the zipper pull at the back of Debbie’s dress. It went up smooth—Lou knew because she was the one who’d zipped it however many hours earlier. She just needed to find out if it un-zipped the same way._

_Later, in their hotel room with Debbie stretched out along her side while Lou fiddled with her dark hair and asked about Debbie’s exchange with the girl at the club. There was a distinct edge of jealousy mixed with amusement in Debbie’s tone when she answered, draping herself over Lou as she did it._

_“I told her that she shouldn’t touch things she can’t afford.”_

 

She smirks at the call-back. Debbie knew Lou would be listening, and she always knows exactly what she's saying, and always says what she means.


	9. Again, For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debbie steps closer, leans in so her breath ghosts over Lou's lips, across her cheekbones; so her words don't need to be any more than breathed-out whispers.
> 
> "I wanna come home, Lou. Take me home."
> 
> And Lou knows she isn't talking about the loft—not entirely at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro Tip: even if you know exactly where you want it to go, the internet WILL distract you every five minutes, and it WILL take you a millions years to write your new chapter.
> 
> Or maybe that's just me... 
> 
> Either way, here is the next instalment in all of it's soft, [hopefully] sexy glory.
> 
> Enjoy!

"There’s glue. There's glue!"

It isn't lost on Amita that she's batting Constance's hands away from pieces of the re-imagined Toussaint just to drop them into her pocket, but she's always a little over-protective of her work.

She's spent more than half her life working with stones, usually high quality stones despite how she may argue with her mother over the specifics of their grading. She's never worked with stones like  _these_  before.  _These_  dangle cool and heavy from her ears—the ones she gets to hang onto for the time being, at least—and her dress slides over her skin, swishes against her calves when she walks down the plush-carpeted stairs.

She passes Debbie, who throws her a glance and a wink before slipping off towards a side exit, and Constance who has her shoes dangling off a finger instead of on her feet. 

" _Can take the girl out of Queens, I gue--Holy_ Shit _. She's talking to_ Taylor Swift _._ "

 

***

 

Lou knows Debbie will be waiting; she's pushing just a bit. After six years she also figures Debbie owes her this chance to be the one dictating their timing.  She's never been able to keep her waiting for long. But this time, just a little. Just a few moments to herself for an extra breath in and then a longer breath out; to memorize the way the diamonds dipping into her cleavage are cool against her overheated skin. 

There's no breeze tonight. Nothing to cut the flush, the adrenaline, the  _high_  of it. And waiting for the crosswalk signal to change, watching Debbie watching her, the heat simmers low in her belly, licks up and up and up, until she knows without a doubt that her eyes are smouldering just as dark as Debbie's are. She can't help snagging her fingers in the low-cut neckline of the jumpsuit, can't resist playing up the tease, the game, for a bit longer.

Debbie doesn't touch her when Lou finally,  _finally_  makes it to the other side of the crosswalk. But then, she doesn't touch Debbie either. Not yet. Falls into step beside her instead. Revels in the way everything from their footsteps, to their breathing syncs up without even having to try. Basks in the glances they get walking down the street dripping in luxury and couture and heavy jewels like it's just a typical Tuesday.  

She doesn't break their stride until they're standing beside her bike, in a back alley between a boarded-up computer-parts store, and a bakery that closed hours ago; far enough away from The Met that they won't draw suspicion. Debbie tugs the wig off her head, stuffs it into a saddle bag, starts working on the pins that are keeping her own hair contained, mutters something about  _bobby pins_  and  _helmets_ and the combination of the two things being  _a real bitch_. Lou moves behind her; gently removes the pins at the nape of her neck while Debbie works on the ones closer to the front; toys with the waves when she gets them out, wraps them around her fingers the way she remembers Debbie always liked, until Debbie turns so they're face to face. 

Debbie steps closer, leans in so her breath ghosts over Lou's lips, across her cheekbones; so her words don't need to be any more than breathed-out whispers.

"I wanna come home, Lou. Take me home."

And Lou knows she isn't talking about the loft—not entirely at least. It takes a minute for it to sink in: that even after Lou asked her to leave; even after she _left_ ; even after taking the longest road back to each other they could find; for Deb,  _Lou_  was still home.  _Even after._

 

*

 

She's in the bathroom taking off her makeup, starting with her lipstick, still dressed in her rock-chic-cinderella jumpsuit, heels abandoned on her way through the bedroom. The wipe smells a little like aloe and a little like melon. She drops it into the bin beside the sink, covered in blush and lipstick; is just reaching for a second to contend with her eyeliner when Debbie appears. She tosses Lou a smirk in the mirror, turns on the faucet to fill the claw foot tub with steaming water, then wraps her arms around Lou’s waist and nuzzles her nose against her throat.

“You smell good.”  
“I thought you might like it.”  
“I thought you only borrowed my stuff when I wasn’t using it?”  
“I’ll steal you another bottle, darling.”

She recognized it when she climbed onto Lou’s bike behind her—the subtle-sweet undertones. She thinks she might like the perfume she knicked from Bergdorf better on Lou than on herself, though. The spice comes out more on Lou’s skin than on her own, and she can’t resist running her tongue over the spot where she can feel Lou's heartbeat to taste the _heat,_  lips curling a little, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, hands running up her sides—just enough pressure for Lou to be able to track each finger and how it dips into the curve of her waist, up her ribs, over the sides of her breasts.

One of Debbie’s hands moves across Lou’s front—palming over a breast, slipping inside the jumpsuit’s neckline to weigh its pair. Her other hand finds the zipper pull at Lou’s back, tugs the fastening down smoothly while her lips work the column of her neck. Stripped bare down to the top of her hips, Lou braces her arms on the counter when Debbie’s lips close over the juncture of her neck and shoulder—right on the spot that sends heat down to her core every time. The spot she hasn’t let anybody touch _since_. The spot Debbie’s smudging with her lips and tongue and teeth.

“You always have made a spectacular picture.”

Debbie’s voice pulls Lou’s eyes up to meet her gaze in the reflection. She watches hands trace over her skin—her body—the _shape_ of her; nearly brought to her knees at the reverence in Debbie’s touch as her fingers crawl down, down, down to slip under the bottom half of her jumpsuit, and under the waistband of her panties, and over—

“Fuck, Debs.”

Lou’s eyes close and she lets her head fall back against Debbie’s shoulder. Debbie smiles, kisses the underside of her jaw, takes a moment to appreciate the way Lou’s head thrown back gives her lips access to far more of the alabaster skin.

And it's been a long time since the last time she was at a loss for words. But here, in the stillness that falls over after-midnight hours, there's nothing left to fall from her mouth—nothing she can say that feel big enough to fill in the spaces, and the cracks, and the fractures between them.

So, she speaks with the tips of her fingers— _I missed you_ —the hand not dipping into Lou lifting to stroke across cheekbones sharp enough to cut the veil between them; with her tongue— _I'm sorry_ —flicking out, around the shell of her ear; with her lips— _I need you_ —ghosting along her jawline, closing over her pulse point. And then she finds her words again.

“Open your eyes, Baby. I want you to see what you look like, like this.”

 

*

 

Water sloshes over the sides of the tub, onto the black and white tile floor when Lou pulls Debbie back against her chest, utterly unapologetic and hands skimming their way down her body. Debbie doesn’t need the water to know she’s hot and slick; thinks she might _need_ Lou the way she needs air.

“Christ, I missed you.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“You feel so good.”

It slips out now, with Lou’s fingers sinking between her thighs—the thing they’ve both been trying to say for weeks. It slips out now when they’re too wrapped up in each other to swallow it down. And the air crackles with the words falling from their lips.

Debbie falls over the edge, white-knuckling the side of the tub against the force of it.

Lou offers no reprieve, no gentle descent back to earth; buries two fingers knuckle-deep and sucks a blemish onto her shoulder.

“Again, sweetheart. Come apart for me again.” 


	10. These Parts of You-and-Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lou rests her forehead against Debbie’s hip, breathes, processes the information she’s been given. Debbie watches her in the reflection; draws a deep inhale—exhale, inhale—exhale, in—out, and pulls her up, to her feet, so they’re standing face to face.
> 
> Her courage for this side of her-and-Lou has reared it’s head and she needs to get it all out before it dwindles again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to have this up a bit earlier than I do, but today was an adventure.
> 
> Special thanks to the wonderful asexualizing(Specialcookies) for helping get me un-stuck with working out the timelines for this chapter, and just being an all-around wonderful human.
> 
> Enjoy :)

The rest of the team filters back to the loft at staggered times. It's harder to track people moving in ones and twos, at different times, on different routes, back to the same location than it is to tail a group.

 

Amita's first with a borrowed key, in the small hours of the morning, long before the sun even starts to tip up over the horizon. Lou comes half-way back to consciousness—just enough to ensure it's Amita that's walked in downstairs. A semi-stifled curse when she must stub her toe or trip while making her way over to the jewel-case solidifies her identity for Lou without having to get up. 

Debbie startles in her sleep but doesn't seem to wake, a testament to how little sleep she's been getting, and the security of Lou beside her, that the first turn of key in lock didn't have her on high-alert. Lou wraps her up a little tighter, listens for the click of Amita's bedroom door down the hall, and closes her eyes again. 

Tammy's next, an hour and a half later, following a similar routine to Amita. Debbie comes halfway back to the waking world this time, but they don't need to hear Tammy's voice to know it's her—the three have worked together during enough jobs, over enough years that they can pick up the sounds of her footfalls without a doubt. The third stair creaks as always, and they hear her fall into her bed at the end of the hall.

 

"What time is it?"  
"Barely morning. Go back to sleep, jailbird."

 

The next wave doesn't arrive until the much more reasonable hour of 8am. Constance rolls in on her skateboard, still somehow in her dress from the gala with a beanie on her head. Debbie's sitting at the counter nursing a cup of green tea, trying to imagine the looks Constance must have received on her way here. But she seems as unfazed as ever and Debbie decides she probably doesn't want to know. Points her towards the case where the diamonds are being stored, nods towards the pot of coffee that she put on to brew when she came downstairs 20 minutes earlier.

Lou is still asleep upstairs, all long limbs sprawled across the bed, tangled in the sheets.  
Debbie couldn't lie there anymore, not with her mind racing the way it was—is. Slipped carefully from her arms and her bed.

Nine-Ball slides in, back to wearing her green canvas jacket and ripped jeans in contrast to the red-satin-bombshell she'd donned last night. Amita emerges from upstairs while Nine-Ball is sorting her share of their prize into velvet boxes, closely followed by Tammy who eyes Debbie suspiciously on her way down the stairs and across the living room to the kitchen, reaches for a mug and the coffee pot to pour herself a cup.

"Lou?"  
"Still asleep?"

Tammy doesn't buy the question-for-a-question response, but she doesn't say anything either. Not yet. Lou appears before she can reconsider—sweeps down the stairs in a maroon suit looking like the cat that got the cream. She definitely doesn't buy Debbie's question-for-a-question _now._

The celebration is quiet—starts with whiskey being poured into coffee, shifts into records playing softly in the background, bleeds into pizza being ordered and more drinks being poured. There will be another one later—Lou's sure. When accounts are settled, and the job really is done. The ruckus will be saved for then.

 

*

 

"You guys are fucked... Nice place. Must be a bitch to heat."

Debbie only ever made mention of it once—to Lou, right at the start—but it had been in the cards since almost the beginning to bring Daphne in. There had been four different, and complete versions of her plan that involved Daphne, and five without. Two of the ones with her and one without w _orked_. But the ones with her were always smoother, always more elegant. 

All things said, the team reacts better than they might have expected—than they could have. It was a gamble putting off telling everyone this long. But Deb was sure, and Lou was sure of Deb, and so—and  _so_.

She slides into place like she belongs there—as though she's been there all along, and really, Lou isn't surprised. Debbie Ocean does not overthink, over analyze, over-plan everything down to the number of paces she'll need to take to get down the hall, for nothing.

 

The trouble is, that can only account for so much of her life, only so many of the facets.

 

*

 

It's Lou that comes up behind Debbie in front of the mirror this time, this one in her bedroom. Drops to her knees beside her, holding her eyes in their reflection. Deb’s wearing the same shirt with the Fleetwood Mac tour dates from 1994 listed on the back as she was the night before the gala, and God, but does Lou love the way she looks wearing her things. It’s not the way they fit her, or how soft the jersey is, though those things are nice too. It’s the way they make her look like _hers._

Lou’s lips start at Debbie's knee, trail up the outside of her thigh, nip lightly along the way when Debbie's hand tangles in her hair. She doesn't tug—knows better than to rush Lou in the quiet moments, works her fingers through the platinum blonde strands and closes her eyes. Sighs softly at the feelings of goosebumps raising on her skin in the wake of Lou's mouth.

Then she tenses.

Lou's nudging the hem of the oversized t-shirt up, aside, and Debbie's eyes go from heavy-lidded to squeezed-tight when Lou's lips and tongue trace the jagged line on the back of hip. Lou's lips move away from her skin, and Debbie feels her palm lay over the scar and then she feels her go still. She's waiting. Debbie knows. She knows because this is what she's done so many times over with every mark on Lou's body; every line; every crease. 

Lou waits quietly; soft kisses dusting Debbie’s side, other hand drawing gentle circles on the opposite hip. She remembers the way Debbie would wait for her. The weight that came with knowing she’d have to speak eventually, but also the lightness that came from knowing it would be on her timing and her terms—that Debbie would wait as long as she needed, let her say it _however_ she needed.

“There’s a certain amount of safety, _inside_ , having a name like Ocean—people know you have people on the outside,” Debbie doesn’t open her eyes, but she keeps speaking. “Danny died and I didn’t even know about it until I got sliced open in my sleep.” Lou’s fingers twitch tighter, curling around her hips.  “I didn’t have anybody, anymore.”

That’s all the words she has and Lou understands. Debbie’s eyes open. Lou works her lips and tongue and teeth over the scar until there’s a deep purple smudge across the middle, marking Debbie as hers—that she’s safe, and loved, and _belongs_ to somebody.

 

Lou rests her forehead against Debbie’s hip, breathes, processes the information she’s been given. Debbie watches her in the reflection; draws a deep inhale—exhale, inhale—exhale, in—out, and pulls her up, to her feet, so they’re standing face to face.

Her courage for _this_ side of her-and-Lou has reared it’s head and she needs to get it all out before it dwindles again.

“So after?”  
“After—”  
“You’re going to California.”  
“I am.”  
“When are you leaving?”  
“Right away, I think.”

Debbie holds in the sound that threatens to spill out; chokes the lump in the back of her throat down, forces her voice to keep working.

“My parole doesn’t end for another six weeks.”  
“I know.”

The lump can’t be swallowed back so easily anymore—it’s Lou asking her to leave all over again; inverted as this time may be. She thought she’d worked through it—it was really on her, anyways, being the one who left. She thought it didn’t matter anymore; thought it wouldn’t sting anymore. But it does, apparently.

“You can’t wai—”  
“I need this Deb. I need to go. For me—”  
“Without me.”

Debbie pulls out of Lou’s grasp; steps around Lou’s attempt to catch her hand. 

And it clicks into place in Lou’s mind, watching Debbie leave the room, towards her own bedroom. Clicks into place all over again when she finds Debbie packing the same damn bag that she left with the all the years, and space, and distance that they’ve finally started crossing ago.

Debbie pulls her favourite heels out of the closet and tucks them into the leather duffel. If she’s losing Lou again she’s sure as hell not also giving up her best Louboutins for a second time.

“Debs.”  
“I’ll be out of your way when you get back.”  
“ _Deborah_ , please—”

Lou’s arms around her middle put a halt to her movement; there wasn’t much willpower behind them anyways. And she tries to stay rigid, but she never has been good at not giving in when Lou’s lips and breath are whispering into her ear. She needs to go—needs this victory lap for herself. Has spent too many years not knowing how to do things for  _her_. But she  _needs_ Deb even more. 

“Two weeks; maybe three, and the only things I want to come back home to afterwards is you.”

“You told me to leave.”  
“I know.”  
“And I did.”  
“Yes, you did.”  
“Are you going to come back?”

Lou turns Debbie around, moves her hands from where they rest on her waist to cradle her face, presses her lips to her forehead, “I am.”  
Presses her lips to her cheek, “I will.”  
Presses her lips to her neck, “I promise.”

Finally, presses her lips to Debbie’s and kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her, because Lou _needs_ Debbie to believe her—to _trust_ her with _this_.

 

 


	11. But I Don't Have Much Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't necessarily her favourite album, isn't necessarily Lou's either. Wasn’t the album she found herself to, or learned how to nurse a hangover to. But it's their record and Wild Horses always has seemed just a little too fitting for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming everything goes according to the outline I have for this (inside my head...) there should be two more chapters after this one, to wrap this adventure up!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting--you sure know how to make a writer feel amazing. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

There's space to think speeding along the coastline—along beside the  _ocean_ , 30 miles over the limit—the irony of it isn't lost on her.

Some days that space makes it harder.

She isn't used to  _having_  this much space anymore—got used to the constant hustle and bustle of New York decades ago; adjusted almost alarmingly quick to having another body back in _her_ space again, taking up part of it,  _being_ part of it. 

Deb left. Deb left her. It was years ago. Nothing in her life has ever hurt more than waiting and waiting and waiting for that damn apartment door to open again, and the knob never turning. 

But she asked her to. She told her to. Told her to go. 

Not that she’d thought Deb would listen. Figured she would push back the way she always did when Lou was angry and said things she didn't mean. Assumed she'd call her bluff the same way she called it the time Lou said  _she_  was going to leave. 

" _Maybe I should just go and let you do it all on your own, then. You clearly don't need me_."   
" _You damn well know that's not what I meant, or what I want,_ Louise _."_

Deb had used her full name and just looked at her incredulously until Lou had slumped onto the sofa and silently admitted that no, she wasn't ever going anywhere. Would  _never._ And she just thought Deb wouldn't either. But then, Lou didn’t ever have to face Debbie telling her to leave and maybe that was what made all the difference. 

She remembers the look in Deb's eyes when the words came out of her mouth. Can't forget it. 

Acceptance—Deb knew just as well as Lou did that she had been pushing Lou to the edges for a while. Knew she wasn't blameless and didn't pretend to be. Might be self-righteous, but hasn't ever been one to play the victim.

Resignation—words are words, and actions are actions, but neither of them can be taken back. Not really. The words had fallen from Lou's lips; at least part of her wanted Deb to go. She didn't though. Just wanted Deb to push back. Wanted to yell and scream and love her in a tumultuous way, and then wake up beside her in the morning to forgive each other because that's what they  _always_  did. But the words were out, and she couldn't take them back.

Love—even then, muted as it was. Love stared back at Lou in Debbie's eyes. It was the thing that let her walk away—Lou knows, would have done the exact same thing had she been in Debbie’s shoes. She can admit that now with time and perspective. Would have given, would _give_ Debbie anything she asked for, even if it hurt, even if it meant giving her up; and that's what Deb had done. She was tired, and hurting, and tired of hurting, and Lou asked her to go and so she did because she was too damn tired to be able to see that Lou didn't mean it. Would never mean it.  _Could_  never mean it. And Lou was too tired to chase after her, to make her believe that she was the only thing she wanted—more than all the other shit. And that, the _tired_ , that part might have been on Deb, but the words were on Lou.

So, maybe there's  _too much_  space here; her thoughts end up in places she'd prefer they didn't, even if she knows it probably can't just be swept under the rug anymore. Deb's reaction to her leaving on her own threw that into stark perspective. 

But she needed this.

Needed this on her own, for  _her_. She needed to remember that she’s still capable of breathing on her own, and laughing on her own, and seeing beautiful things on her own. She needed to remember that she’s still  _her_. Doesn't mean she hasn’t been thinking of Deb every night when she's falling asleep, lying in bed in whatever cramped motel room she ends up with when her body can't ride anymore for the day. Doesn't mean she hasn't been collecting trinkets at every stop so that she can relive it all when she gets home and tells her about it. Doesn't mean she hasn't missed her. But it does mean she hasn't called, and she's only texted a few times because the salt water air is intoxicating, and the ocean skyline is hypnotizing, and she wants to live  _in this_  while she's here.

 

*  
 

The loft echoes when it's empty. To be fair, it echoes when it's full of bodies too, she just doesn't notice it as much over the sounds of footsteps, and chatter, and the coffee maker, and Constance rolling back and forth across the hardwood on her skateboard.

But now all she can hear are the echoes.   
All she can hear are the echoes reminding her that the place is empty other than her.   
All she can hear are the echoes reminding her that _this_ is what she left Lou to for six years. Not that she's under any assumption that Lou took a vow of celibacy or silence while she was gone. Nevertheless. 

She hasn't called. She's wanted to, but she hasn't because she understands. Lou needed this and it was within Debbie’s power to give it. So she would and she wouldn't call. Even if she wanted to. She texted a couple times—never what she wanted to say. Never " _I love you,"_ or  _"I miss you_." or " _please come home, whenever_ ," because Deborah Ocean doesn’t beg; except that maybe she does; for Lou Miller. Maybe she'd started to type out all of those messages and then erased each one before hitting send. She couldn't put this on Lou. 

_"Two weeks, maybe three, and then—”_

She puts the kettle on to boil in an attempt at something else to think about.

It's been three weeks and a day. Debbie feels like she hasn't done anything but  _wait_  that whole time. She hasn't known how to do anything else. She hasn't been just sitting around either. She met with Tammy to see to the finishing touches of the fencing; saw Amita about the pieces she was making; Constance seemed to pop by at random intervals, usually around the times when food would be involved—the girl has a sixth sense. But under it all Debbie knows she's been waiting for Lou to walk through the front door for 22 days, 10 hours, and 45 minutes, now. Knows that it would also be fair if Lou didn't come back for another five years, eleven months, and eight days. Turnabout and all that.

The sound of the kettle whistling is a welcome break to the silence; the motions of making a cup of tea a welcome distraction, short as it is.  

She's been avoiding the record player. Hasn't looked at it more than strictly necessary while moving about the loft. There's too many memories attached to it. Too many nights spent lying on the floor of their first apartment, tangled up on the carpet, drunk off cheap wine, falling asleep to the sound of the turntable turning—a click with each spin—long after the tracks had finished, neither of them willing to unwind themselves from the other to reset the needle or flip the record to the other side. 

But, it's been three weeks. It's been three weeks and she  _misses_  Lou, and having a piece of Lou pouring from the speakers, wrapping around her, around the loft would be better than the  _stillness_. It takes a few minutes, but Debbie manages to find the  _Sticky Fingers_ , Rolling Stones album filed near the back of Lou's collection. It’s one of the few stored in a protective sleeve. They bought it at the first concert they went to together.

 _"—at the Cheetah Room? Really, Lou?"  
_ _"Come on, darling. You can wear something outrageous."_

She had done exactly that. Stole a pair of skin-tight, bright red leather pants just for the occasion. Enjoyed the way Lou's eyes dragged over her when she walked out of their bedroom wearing those, stilettos, and a black shirt with a plunging neckline. The pants ended up on rotation in Lou’s wardrobe after the show. After they bought the vinyl, after they got home and put the record on to play and fell into each other and she peeled them off of Debbie's body and used her tongue and her fingers and her teeth making sure it was a worthwhile trade for the both of them. 

It isn't necessarily her _favourite_ album, isn't necessarily Lou's either. Wasn’t the album she found herself to, or learned how to nurse a hangover to. But it's  _their_  record and  _Wild Horses_  always has seemed just a little too fitting for the both of them.

So, she slides the sleeve from its plastic, and the record from its sleeve, and sets it spinning on the turntable, and— _nothing._ Not a sound from the speakers and Debbie remembers that Lou had re-wired the system so the girls could play music from Nine-Ball’s laptop when the heist was done, and the good liquor flowed, and the eight of them spent the night just reveling in it. But she promised she’d switch it all back before she left. She didn’t—forgot, maybe; maybe didn’t have time; maybe didn’t bother.

And that’s what does it—a record player that won’t play.  
Debbie’s mug flies across the living room, shatters against the wall, tea dripping down the plaster.

She crumbles.  
To her knees.  
To the floor.

Can’t decide if she’s angry or heartbroken or about to be sick. Her head falls forward and so does her hair, blocking everything out on either side of her face. She clenches her jaw against the sounds that want to spill out. 

She’s _Deborah Ocean_.  
Ocean’s don’t fall apart.  
Not over this.  
Not over anything. 

The front door opening with a click reminds her that she and Tammy made plans, brunch and business. Sales were done, money trickling into everyone’s account, but nobody lands that kind of cash without somebody asking something, except perhaps Daphne, so there needs to be method to it. Needs to look legitimate on paper.

“Deb?”

 _Shit._

She pulls herself together and off the floor. Not before Tammy sees her, though. But she lets Debbie pretend she didn’t. She lets Debbie pretend that she didn’t see the moment that the cracks in her façade split her open; for a while anyways. Lets her keep pretending she hasn’t noticed the streaks of tea drying on the far wall, or the shards of a mug on the floor in front of them, until they’re finished talking shop, and Tammy’s about to wander out the door, and back to her life in the suburbs. She turns back to find Debbie staring at the record player that she turned off when Tammy walked in.

“Deb?”  
“What’s up, Tam-Tam?”  
“Lou’s not back?”

It’s a valid question. Lou said she’d be back in three weeks on the outside when Tammy asked about her plans for after the job. Yesterday marked that and she’d half expected Lou to be there when she walked in. Half expected her to be standing, pressed up beside Debbie, talking in hushed whispers the way the two of them always do, whether they’re in a crowded room or completely alone. 

Lou wasn’t there, though. There wasn’t any sign of her bike, or her helmet, or her favourite moto boots. It was just Deb looking like she’d been kicked in the gut.

Debbie doesn’t say much.

“No, not back yet.”

And she disappears upstairs, leaving Tammy to show herself out. Makes it clear that Tammy isn’t invited to follow her with the definitive closing of a bedroom door. So, Tammy leaves the loft, climbs into her SUV, drives home; pulls out her phone when she’s sitting in her own driveway.

 

*

 

Lou’s phone has gone off so infrequently since she crossed the New York state line that she almost jumps when it rings. Almost, her body is still versed enough that it doesn’t follow through with the motion.

“Tammy?”  
“Where are you, Lou?”  
“Town about nine hours East of Los Angeles. Had to have a tire repaired. I know I’m a day late, but—”  
“—do you love her?”  
“Don’t think that’s been a secret for decades now.”  
“And you couldn’t have called?”  
“Jesus, Tammy. You’ve been playing too many rounds of 20 questions with Tommy.”  
“She’s not okay, Lou.” 

She’d been half-waiting for Deb to call her for weeks; Didn’t expect Tammy to be the one calling her up. Definitely didn’t expect the bluntness in Tammy’s statement. But it got her attention.

“She didn’t say it. Didn’t say much of anything that wasn’t related to the accounts. But she kept looking at the record player like she expected it to grow legs and do a tap dance, and I think she thinks you’re not coming back. I think she thinks you’re leaving her.”  
“I wouldn’—”  
“—you wouldn’t—I know that. Are you sure she does?”

Lou doesn’t know what to say to that one, thankfully Tammy saves her from having to come up with something.

“Just—call her? If you’re not coming back she deserves to know; deserves to hear it from you. For all the things she’s done that haven’t made any sense to me, for all the crap and bravado she picked up from Danny, she loves you.”

 

*

 

She ran away and she knows it. Isn’t sure if she cares what Tammy might think of the fact that she did. Lying in bed—her own because it smells less like Lou, and the room is decorated a little less like Lou, the clothes Lou didn’t bring with her aren’t hanging in the closet left open the way they are in Lou’s room, and she didn’t share this bed with Lou—trying not to think at all.

She thinks about not even looking when her phone buzzes and buzzes for an incoming call, and then stops and then buzzes again with a text message, where she tossed it on the other side of the bed—more than likely Tammy trying to tell her something or other about the things that could make her happy. She isn’t in the mood. Reaches for it and unlocks the screen when it finishes, though, because Ocean’s are built for asking every “what if” there is, and there are at least fifty other things it could be that she can think of just off the top of her head.

 _Baby, I’m coming home.  
_ received 2:45pm. 


	12. Need You Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sticky Fingers is still on the turntable, sleeve toppled off to the side, on the floor. She feels a twinge at that; guilty for forgetting to reset the system before she left, when she’d said she would.
> 
> ...
> 
> “Debs?”  
> “Need you.”  
> “You’ve got me.”  
> “Need you here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this update was so long in coming.
> 
> Pre-Christmas was a /time/ and Christmas was /busy/ and... I have no other excuse.  
> Hopefully this was worth the wait.
> 
> Special thank you to asexualizing(Specialcookies) for listening to me babble my way through plot lines that sometimes don't make sense the first few tries, and for just being a delight in general.
> 
> Enjoy!

She comes home to silence.

Closes the door and drops her bag by the couch on her way through the living room,  
and there’s no trace of footsteps upstairs.  
  
Silence.

It isn’t overly surprising—Deb hasn’t ever really been one for unnecessary amounts of noise. She’ll put on music, appreciates the cover and distraction that sound provides during a con. But she also meticulously turns off the stereo before leaving a room, and would sooner tell Constance to keep it down for the fifth time in an hour than she would turn up the volume on the TV.

It doesn’t take Lou long, however, to realize that the loft is so perfectly silent because it’s empty. No sign of Deb. Which—she knew that Lou was coming back today. But then, Lou wasn’t sure what time she’d get in, and Deb’s favourite and second favourite pair of heels are still in her closet, beside the Manolo's they _picked up_ two days before the heist, just to blow off steam and because they went with her gown. She might not be _there,_ but she isn’t _gone_.

Lou toes off her boots, shucks her leather jacket over the back of the armchair in the corner of her room, washes her face to get rid of the chapped feeling that comes with long hours of riding, pads back downstairs and towards the record player on autopilot.

 _Sticky Fingers_ is still on the turntable, sleeve toppled off to the side, on the floor. She feels a twinge at that; guilty for forgetting to reset the system before she left, when she’d said she would.

 _Her departure was dictated by Claude’s conviction, as the case was. Money was making its way into everyone’s accounts in_ believable _waves, the finger officially pointed at somebody other than them. Save for odds and ends that could really only be seen to by Debbie, Tammy, and Amita there was nothing left to do but figure out how to spend their new lifestyles._

_And so, the date was set and it was unspoken._

_The night before Lou left Debbie was relentless—insatiable and hungry and single-minded in all the ways her teeth dragged over Lou’s curves; fingernails scored deep red lines into her back; hair fanned wild around her face. And Lou was helpless but to give in to each of her whims, and the hickeys and the hitches-of-breath and the gasps that came with them._

_With the morning Debbie turned quiet, into herself. Lou was ready to spend every minute between waking up and heading out coaxing_ Deb _back out, back to her. Would spend the morning tracing all of the lines of Debbie’s body until_ Debbie _came back to it. Then the door to the loft slammed open downstairs, and the ruckus of the girls all showing up to see Lou off drifted up, and Debbie slipped away from Lou and to her own room, through the bathroom, just barely managing to close the door on her side before Constance burst into Lou’s room._

_“Heeeeeey! We brought booze for us and brunch for you and came to see you off—wait, are you naked under that blanket?”_

_Debbie stayed close to Lou while everyone ate at the counter. Lou wasn’t really sure why they were eating there instead of at the table, but perched on a stool with Deb tucked so close that she was all but in her lap, she couldn’t really complain. Deb was quiet, but she stayed close and Lou kept her closer._

_It was ridiculous, really. The goodbye she’d envisioned—something out of some romantic comedy with sunshine and a breeze and Deb in her arms, and whispers of the things Lou’s felt for her for decades and how they’d play out in just a few weeks when Lou came home to her. But neither of them_ did _feelings overly well, certainly not with an audience, and neither of them knew how to get the girls to leave before Lou did, either. So what she’d envisioned flew out the proverbial window._

_With the girls all around, Lou managed to pull Debbie into a hug once she’d been released by Constance and Amita. Buried her nose in Debbie’s neck and held her for as long as she could with an audience—“miss you.”_

It wasn’t what either of them needed, but it didn’t dawn on Lou, at least not until now, how hard it might have, seems to have, hit Debbie.

 

*

 

She took the subway back to the loft. Thought about a cab, maybe an Uber, but the ride would be too fast and she hasn’t really managed to wrap her head around the concept of ride-sharing just yet. But, for as much time as taking the subway bought her, Debbie’s standing in front of the door and she can’t reasonably put it off any longer.

She isn’t avoiding Lou—if Lou’s home.  
She’s avoiding the fact that Lou might have decided not to come home after all.  
Spent three weeks and four days _waiting_ in the empty warehouse and couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t spend another day waiting and waiting because if the door didn’t open and Lou didn’t show, well, she just _couldn’t_.

So she didn’t. 

She walked Central Park;  
stopped by Bergdorf—stole a new shade of lipstick just to remind herself that she could.  
Now she’s here.

The loft is bathed in warm light when Debbie walks in; warm light and the opening chords of “Sway” and Lou’s sitting at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee, watching Debbie, who’s momentarily frozen in the doorway. She can’t breathe for the first two beats, and then, all at once, she can breathe better than she’s been able to in a month.

Her steps across the room are slow and measured and precise.  
Lou lets Debbie take her time.  
Lets Debbie come to her.

And when Debbie is finally— _finally_ standing in front of her, close enough to touch for the first time in weeks, close enough to see the shadows under her eyes even with how well-concealed they are, close enough to smell her perfume, the elastic that’s been holding Lou level snaps. She hauls Debbie into her, arms around her waist, crashes their lips together; feels Debbie tangle her fingers in her hair and _tug_ ; groans and licks into her mouth, and can’t get enough of how she _tastes_.

Lou pulls back eventually, doesn’t lose the arm around Debbie’s waist as she brushes her dark hair away from her face, traces a finger along her jawline, goes still until brown eyes to meet her blue ones.

“I won’t ever not come home to you, Jailbird. You know that, don’t you?”

And Debbie nods her head and surges forward to press her lips to Lou’s again. It doesn’t matter if she wasn’t sure before—she’s sure now. She belongs to Lou and Lou belongs to her, and she’s fighting with the buttons down the front of Lou’s vest because there are too many layers between them and the only thing she needs right now is Lou’s skin against hers.

For all the urgency coming from Debbie, Lou is set to take her time. Works her lips over the spot just below Debbie’s ear that she learned years ago sends shivers and tingles all the way through her. The one she found by accident, at a club, half of forever ago when she had leaned over to tell Debbie something or other about the mark they’d been tracking about the room, breathed down Debbie’s neck in the process, _just right_ , and they’d barely made it into a locked stall in the bathroom before Debbie jumped her.

This time she works it slow, with purpose. Lifts Debbie’s hands from where they’re still struggling with the bottom half of the buttons on her vest, eases them into resting on her hips, wraps Debbie up again, all still working that one spot on her neck.

“We have time, honey.”

The keen she gets from Debbie  tells her that they might _have_ time, but Debbie doesn’t have _time_ for time, doesn’t _want_ to have it. She wants _Lou—needs_ her, and for all her original plans for the evening, Lou isn’t in much of a mood to deny Deborah Ocean anything tonight.

Lou settles for abandoning the burgundy bruise she’s left in favour of crowding Debbie up against the counter, makes quick work of the buttons down the front of her black silk blouse, traces each inch of new skin as the air finds it, following her fingers with her tongue—licks over her collar bones, nips at the lines of her ribs, kisses down her belly—reaches the button of Debbie’s jeans and then stops when there’s a sharp tug in her hair. Straightens up quickly because there’s a look in Debbie’s eyes and Lou’s worried she hurt her somehow.

“Debs?”  
“Need you.”  
“You’ve got me.”  
“Need you _here."_  

Lou understands when Debbie’s arms wrap around her shoulders and her fingers tangle tighter still in her hair. Debbie needs her _right there, with her._ Relief floods her system once Lou knows she hasn’t hurt her. Crowds into her a little closer, breathes the same air, tucks Debbie’s hair back behind her ear with one hand, and traces up the inside of her thigh with the other.

“I’m _right here_.”

It’s a different intensity than she’s used to—a deeper one—holding Debbie’s eyes while her fingers work her body. Seeing them flutter when she tweaks her nipples; sparkle when Lou groans at finding how wet Debbie already is; go hazy when she slides two, and then three fingers into that heat and Debbie can’t stop the hitch in her breath and the cant of her hips, bites her lip against the sounds that spill out nonetheless. Lou thinks she might come apart herself, staring straight into Debbie’s eyes when she flies over the edge. Licks her fingers clean, and holds Debbie up instead; gets her turn when Debbie comes back to herself—legs back under her—and pulls Lou upstairs to bed, strips her down and shoves her across the mattress and settles between her thighs.

“I’m not finished with you yet.”  
“Mhm, okay.”

How had Lou almost managed to forget how _good_ Debbie is with her tongue?

Lou drags Debbie back up, and underneath her when she’s smiling that smug smile from between her thighs—the smile reserved for when she’s especially pleased with herself. Lou isn’t planning on being finished with Deb for the night until she’s tasted every inch of her skin; unraveled her until she’s begging; inspired blasphemies mixed with her name, falling from her lips. 


	13. Tick-Tock-Tick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clouds are falling out of the sky, lingering in the pathways she walked through the cemetery in a fog almost as thick as the haze in her mind after the revelation she didn’t realize she wasn’t prepared to have.
> 
> ...
> 
> The truth is that Lou knows her far too well.
> 
> The truth is that Lou has known her that well for longer than she’s been keeping track
> 
> ...
> 
> Five years, eight months, twelve days; all that and the months before she was put away, and the months before that they spent fighting. It’s all just so much time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are.
> 
> Does this mean it's done?  
> How do I even feel about that?
> 
> This has been another /ride/--thanks for taking it with me.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, and left kudos, and commented.  
> I hope this ending is everything it needs to be <3

It’s cold for June, in New York. Cold, and cloudy, and it might even rain later.

Rainy days were her favourite when she was little.

The year her rubber boots were bright yellow, and she had a matching rain coat with a hood. She was _six_ —finally old enough to walk herself to school, splashing through all the puddles her mother wasn’t there to tell her to step around; the ones she’d stomp through thinking about how her father wasn’t there to yell at her for “making a mess” of herself and what it _means_ to be an _Ocean._

_Today_ , it’s cold enough that she shrugged into a leather jacket before she left. The clouds are falling out of the sky, lingering in the pathways she walked through the cemetery in a fog almost as thick as the haze in her mind after the revelation she didn’t realize she wasn’t prepared to have.

  
*

  
“—aren't actually in there, I’ll put you there myself.”  
“I’m not convinced he’s dead. Just if you were wondering.”

Habits are things that people like her usually avoid, _should_ avoid.

But it’s Wednesdays morning and she’s there again.   
Same as every Wednesday morning previous, usually before the sun is even all the way up, since she was released from prison. 

_It’s quiet that early—less likely to be seen,_ she reasoned when Tammy asked her about it at the start of the job. Really though, it’s that Wednesdays were the days that Danny drove her to class when she was in the high school. The one day a week that she got a half hour of time with him that didn’t have to be about the family legacy, or expectations, or not being a disgrace. He’d poke and prod Debbie about her schemes and her plans, and tease her about how all of them started revolving around Lou almost as soon as they met, and never stopped.

After that, Wednesday mornings belonged to Danny and Debbie.  
Apparently even now.

When Lou woke up to an empty bed on a Wednesday morning she only needed one shot at where to look.

The gears are turning in Debbie’s head, behind her eyes. There are words at the back of her throat—Lou can see them—they’re stuck, can’t find the way up to the tip of her tongue, to fall from her lips. She watches Debbie mull them about her mouth, try to force them into strings that make sense; knows she might need a few minutes to get there; holds out her hand.

“Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.”  
“I think I could use a drink instead.”  
“That can be arranged.”

Debbie takes the excuse to take a few more minutes to figure out how to say what she’s trying to tell Lou. Threads their fingers and lets Lou lead her out of the mausoleum.

It’s cold,   
and it’s cloudy,   
and it might even rain later,   
and Lou still brought the bike,   
because _of course_ she did.

Doesn’t even bother to offer up any kind of justification—when has she ever needed one—and holds out the second helmet to Debbie.

Debbie takes the helmet and grabs Lou by the waist to pull her closer, seal their lips together. She knows she doesn’t deserve Lou. Patient, strong, not-unsettled-by-Debbie’s-silence, beautiful Lou. Lou who feels so _good_ up against her body; who pulls back, then back in for a lingering moment; swings herself onto the bike and waits for Debbie to pull her helmet on, and settle behind her. Waits for Debbie’s thighs to bracket her hips, and for her arms to grip her waist. Flicks the throttle, launches them onto the road fast enough that inertia forces Debbie even tighter to her back, plastered against her, all the way up her spine.

 

*

  
“So, what’s next, Jailbird?”  
“I heard from Rusty yesterday.”  
“I thought I recognized the caller ID.”  
“I told him he’s had the same number too long.”

Lou smirks, hands a tumbler over, shifts from where she's leaning against the railing beside Debbie to stand behind her, hands on the rail on either side, bracketing Debbie's body with her own. They mock a little bit but she understands why Rusty won't change it, is pretty sure Deb does too. Knows that if Deb had up and vanished into thin air, her own number wouldn't change either, no matter how high the odds against it ringing were. Debbie sips her bourbon and watches Lou’s staff set up for the night. None of what’s being put up on bar rail for opening is watered down, _those_ bottles come out later when people can’t taste it anymore. What’s coming out for now may have distilled in a well, but it’s full monte.

Nightclubs are odd places during daylight hours.   
When all of the patches in the walls,   
and the ducts in the ceilings,   
and the gouges in the bar top aren’t hidden by smoke and technicolour lights and bass dictating your heartbeat.

A bit of the spell gets broken. But Debbie’s glad Lou brought her to her own place. She needed a bit of some kind of spell to break to get her mind around things, and get the words out. 

“I have a lead on Danny.”

Debbie chews on what to say after that; Lou processes. She watches April inspecting the glasses hanging over the bar. She’s a good kid. A little naïve, a little young, but she’s always on time and she never complains about doing the ‘wet work’ in the back room upstairs. Lou remembers the way she would have been willing to sell her soul at that age just to be able to not worry about affording rent, remembers the times she almost did, makes a mental note to check that tips are still coming in at a decent amount for all of them, then Debbie speaks again.

“Prague.”  
“And if he’s really gone?”  
“Then he’s really gone and we’re in Prague.”  
“Prague, hm?”

Debbie turns in her arms. The sadness in her look gives way to mirth when Lou asks about Prague.   
The shine comes back to her gaze, her lips curl into a smirk; her eyes flit about, triple-checking there’s nobody within hearing-distance of the upper level.

“The dial from the Astronomical Clock would look divine on the empty wall in our bedroom.”  
“You _would_ find a way to steal time itself.”

The truth is that Lou knows her far too well.

The truth is that Lou has known her that well for longer than she’s been keeping track, and knew what Debbie was really after as soon as she mentioned the clock. The truth is that she’s loved Lou, belonged to Lou, gave her heart and the person she is underneath the strut and the ambition and the blazing-through-life to Lou decades ago.

Five years, eight months, twelve days; all that and the months before she was put away, and the months before that they spent fighting. It’s all just so much time. Time she lost for them; for _Lou_ ; and she doesn’t know how to get it back. She can’t get it back and she knows that. Knows that the blame was shared, and Lou forgave her forever ago, whether she deserved it or not. She forgave Lou too, before she'd even thought about it.

But she still wants to steal that dial. She wants to steal that dial for Lou; give her the closest thing to _time_ that she can.   
Because she’s going to give Lou all of herself until the end of the line.   
And the dial really will look _spectacular_ mounted on the revealed brick.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and cookies feed the muse <3


End file.
